


Pride and Omens

by LeapOfFaith1489



Category: Good Omens (TV), Pride and Prejudice (1995), Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: Angels and Demons interact with humans a lot more than they do in canon, F/F, F/M, Female-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Guardian Angels, Guardian Demons, M/M, Male-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Male-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Night Terrors, Nightmares, Not Canon Compliant, PTSD implied, Regency Romance, past child neglect implied
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 01:00:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 41,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22007368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapOfFaith1489/pseuds/LeapOfFaith1489
Summary: Good Omens / Pride&Prejudice fusion.**Author is on mental health hiatus. This fic will be back!**"Oxfordshire, 1813. Anathema, daughter of a vicar and a former witch, was raised by a whole host of angels, but Aziraphale is certainly her favourite godfather. Once the Turpinfield estate is rented by young Mr Pulsifer, the Archangels seem suspiciously enthusiastic about this new acquaintance. Especially since Pulsifer is under the tutelage of the demon Crowley, whose reputation precedes him.How can the marriage of Heaven's protégé and Hell's ward advance the Great Plan?And, most importantly... what if the banter between their immortal guardians sparks an irresistible attraction?"
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens)
Comments: 65
Kudos: 40





	1. Prologue: The arrow and the circle

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! Thank you for being here. This story has been lurking in my mind for a while and I couldn't rest until I'd put it down on paper ^_^ 
> 
> In the prologue I decided to try a first-person narration, alternated with a third-person in the present tense for the flashback. I love to use the present tense when I dive into past events :) In the next few chapters I will opt for a more traditional third-person/past tense combination. 
> 
> Despite being a huge fan of Jane Austen, I would go way out of my depth if I tried to adopt an austenesque style, as English is my second language: more sophisticated structures can be a real struggle for me. Please, if you find any mistakes don't hesitate to point them out! I'll try to keep the prose as simple and clean as possible, but hopefully the spirit of Aunt Jane will guide me and make this story enjoyable for her fans, too ^^
> 
> I hope you have fun reading my little angelic-demonic retelling of P&P!

**Pride and Omens**   
_A Pride &Prejudice-verse fanfic_

__

_**Prologue – The Arrow and the Circle** _

Eternity is a circle, and human lives in comparison are nothing more than a swarm of arrows flying through its perimeter; some by accident, some as the result of calculated risk. Maybe you haven’t considered the trajectory, maybe you have underestimated the possibility of serious damage. It happens, when you are not used to being damaged at all. We don’t really know the consequences of proximity until we learn that a caress can burn, and its absence can make you bleed.

  
How important can it be, after all? Fifty, sixty years top: that’s all the time we can share with humans. Gone in the blink of an eye, barely a murmur in the wind. In just a handful of centuries I’ll have forgotten the fold of that smile, the sound of that laughter. My mind can’t hold all the sounds in the world as I slip forward, square after square, along the endless chessboard of time. In order to fulfil my duty I have to focus on the divine melody, and let the background noise go.

  
I thought I was strong in my immortality. How silly of me.

  
I didn’t know, then, that what touches your skin can change it, nor that some arrows are made to pierce through you and leave emptiness in their wake. They’ve gone, lost on the battlefield – gravestones of wood and metal that bear neither names nor memories. They’ve left their mark inside you, though. The whole you used to be is broken: a scar is here to stay.

  
That particular human might be dead and gone, their role in the ineffable plan played till the last card. Yet, you still carry them with you. All the memories you share make your wings heavier and you heart slower, since you are the only one still standing, bearing their weight.

  
So you become a witness of Time. A graveyard of shared laughter, shared secrets, voices that won’t come back. A broken circle that forgot how it felt to be whole, and all because the fleeting touch of a mortal life changed you forever.

  
I didn’t think creatures like us could change, before. 

  
Angels are like distant suns, fixed and immutable. We don’t need light, we don’t need warmth. Our task is to emanate, not to receive. We were born perfect – well, that’s not entirely accurate, please forgive my slip of the tongue. Naturally, perfection belongs only to Her. I’d rather say we were born suitable, ready to fulfil our duty in the economy of the universe. 

  
Gabriel would have a thing or two to say about this. In his eyes, I was never suitable for anything, really. Never steadfast enough, never pure or strong enough. Aziraphale, the laughing stock of Heaven, the only angel missing that ounce of Grace that all of his winged siblings seem to possess. Yet I, too, am a shape hunched on itself; my solitude is one with the other angels’.

  
At least, it used to be.

  
Until I allowed a straight line to cross my round, unbroken existence. 

*

  
_The smell of rotten things is everywhere. It comes from the alleys, the spurting sewers, the mud in which dead dogs and children’s feet soak together._

  
_There are so many children in these London slums. The city grows untamed, and poverty grows, too, feeding on scarcity and desperation. The urchins have dirty faces, yellowish eyes, and skin stretched on cheekbones that should be full and round. They stretch tiny hands towards Aziraphale, pulling his coat, asking for a spare coin, only a penny, good sir, to feed my poor ma’ and the babies at home. The angel has half a crown for each one; he pulls the coins out of thin air between well-manicured fingers. A minor miracle will help the urchins forget they ever saw two angels walking amongst them._

  
_How will they explain the coin?_

  
_Found in the gutter. Washed on the banks of the Thames. Slid out of the pocket belonging to a distracted gentleman. Human minds love to make up stories and they are quick to supply some plausible ones. Nobody will ever suspect the truth, especially the children. They will forget._

  
_This blond angel, so chubby and dull, is certainly quite forgettable. Not the same can be said about the creature walking a few steps ahead._   
_Technically, Aziraphale’s colleague is an angel, too; in practical terms, though, the matter is far more complex. Overlapping of department, outsourcing asset recovery efforts. Aziraphale knows it wouldn’t be wise for him to investigate the details of this unusual collaboration, so he follows, meek and compliant, the long black cloak wrapped around his colleague’s shoulders. The other angel might be rather unforgettable, but he passes by quite undetected, all things considered. Under his dramatic hood there’s a kind of darkness nobody is ready to dive into. The urchins scatter as he struts forward, with their fists wrapped around the coin Aziraphale gave them, as if their lives depended on how fast they run away._

  
_And they aren’t exactly wrong._

  
**“What a waste.”**

  
_The voice of the angel in black should sound muffled, since it’s projected forward along the filthy alley; yet Aziraphale hears it echo all around him, cavernous and distorted._

  
_“Come again? “_

  
**“It’s not worth the trouble. Your coin will help them survive for a few days at best. What’s the point of holding on to such a wretched existence?”**

  
_Aziraphale worries the brim of his beige top hat, turning it between unsteady fingers. His first instinct would be to wrinkle his nose at the other angel’s pedantic remark, but he has to keep a mask of professional courtesy at the very least. He can’t afford to start a feud between departments._

  
_“Humans, Azrael,” the Principality answers with an air of stuffy solemnity, “are in no way like us. To them, one day could make all the difference in the world.”_

  
_The creature in the black cloak stops. His shoulders shudder. There are equal probabilities that the movement has been caused by a shrug, a sigh, or a jolt of laughter._

  
_Oh, well. Wouldn’t it be something, to have made Death laugh?_

  
**“Are you trying to explain human nature to me, Principality?”**

  
_In retrospect, pointing out the frailty of mortal life to the one who has been in charge of reaping it since the dawn of time could get easily mistaken for arrogance. Nevertheless, Aziraphale isn’t the kind of angel to take his words back. He appreciates their weight too much to admit that maybe, just this time, he’s used them less than appropriately._

  
_“What are we supposed to do here?” he asks instead. “I believe I have the right to know, at this stage.”_

  
_In the almost six thousand years since Adam and Eve have been shunned from Eden, none of the tasks given to the former Guardian of the Eastern Gate has ever crossed paths with the Angel of Death. Gabriel has refused to give him the details, claiming that Azrael would show him the specifics of the job on the field. They have been walking for hours, and still Death hasn’t given Aziraphale a half decent explanation. The Principality is tired of being treated like an afterthought. He wants the truth. He is entitled to it, for goodness sake._   
_The being in black turns to face Aziraphale. His eyes, empty cavities in a shrivelled skull, freeze all the Grace in the angel’s veins._

  
**“I am here to collect, as always. This time, you will collect too.”**

  
_“I..." the Principality gasps. “Well, it is not my department, there must have been a mistake in the assignment forms. Maybe I should contact Head Office before I...”_

  
**“The Bennet household. Our journey is over.”**

  
_Aziraphale looks at the door in front of them. It’s ajar. Darkness and the subtle smell of decay seep out of it; Death slips in the house without moving the wooden plank, as if his body were boneless and insubstantial — just a shred of cosmos, nothing more than a shadow._   
_The Principality hesitates on the threshold._

  
_“I don’t understand, Azrael! My job here can’t be...”_

  
_From the blackness, two puffs of white smoke come out; there is no doubt on their nature. They are the souls Death has just reaped. The incorporeal figures will be escorted towards Raphael’s check point before being redirected, hopefully, towards Heaven. They are followed by the more substantial shape of a rat. Aziraphale jumps at the sight, waving his top-hat like a shield._

  
_“In the name of all that’s Holy!” The angel clutches the rim of his hat; the beast, on its part, is scuttling forward without sparing Aziraphale a second glance. “They can’t force me to take on a new role without consulting me first, I have to talk to Head Office, Gabriel has no authority to assign me...”_

  
_From inside the house, the shrill rises. The top-hat falls in the mud._

  
_It’s a baby._

  
_It’s crying._

  
_And it seems very much alive._

*

What does a circle become, when a straight line breaks it in the middle?

  
I am not sure yet, but I know my shape has changed forever the day I held the child in my arms for the first time.

  
I didn’t choose to call her Anathema: the name came with the guardianship, together with the long awaited instructions from Heaven. Yes, I know it means curse, and maybe I should have fought harder to change it into something less gloomy; I must say, though, I‘ve always liked the sound. Besides, with any other name, the arrow that was to change me forever had already been released.

  
I felt it strike me the moment I held baby Anathema against my chest, when her tiny ear laid on this human vessel’s heart and listened intently. Did the beat calm her? Maybe she just felt the divine love I emanate. But it wasn’t enough for her; I knew it wasn’t. She was still fussing for the cold and the hunger, and I couldn’t think of anything else to do.

  
So I sang to her.

_Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly, lavender’s green,_   
_When I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queen:_   
_Who told you so, dilly dilly, who told you so?_   
_‘Twas mine own heart, dilly dilly, that told me so._

I sang to her many other songs in the years to follow, counting the days we had left together. Anathema, the girl Death left behind, and her guardian angel, a clumsy godfather indeed. I am doing my best to raise her, and I am well aware that it’s not enough. It will never be. I have to do more, I must do right by my darling girl and help her play the role destiny has in store for her. 

  
She is twenty, now: two blinks of an eye for me. In three blinks, we will share our tea in front of the fireplace, and in the winter nights I’ll massage her aching hands and shoulders. In another two, she’ll have to lean on my arm with her whole weight when she wants to take a walk. In another three blinks, she…

  
Mortal lives can break a circle, and force him to know his borders well. This, I learned by raising Anathema. What I couldn’t imagine was that those lines can become bridges towards other circles, other lonely stars. Through Anathema, and other humans, I learned that I might not be alone in my eternity, after all. 

  
If only I could find the courage to go past this undying pride of mine.

  
If only I knew which omens to follow.


	2. A Host of Universal Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has news for Anathema: a new neighbour has taken possession of Turpinfield.  
> But why does the angel look so guilty about the whole thing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the long delay in translating this chapter! Between performance season (so many of my students are taking exams and performing in festivals and competitions, I'm literally all over the place) and the second draft of the novel I'm working on, the weeks literally flew. 
> 
> I have finished drafting chapter 3 (half in Italian, half in English XD Just to make things more complicated), so the story is definitely going forward. I hope I won't make you wait that long for the next one.
> 
> As always, a thousand thanks to dear @lestelle for her invaluable help in making these chapters presentable to an English-reading audience ^^

**Chapter 1: A Host of Universal Truths**

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a girl protected by a host of angels must be on her way to perfect happiness.

All things considered, Anathema Bennet-Fell shouldn't have complained. The circumstances of her birth were not, indeed, the brightest, and the wealth she enjoyed now, in a little nice estate in the middle of Oxfordshire, should have made her feel at least content.

Her father had been a vicar, and one so dedicated in his mission to bring relief to the poor that he had managed to secure for himself the heart of a young witch, miss Miasma Device. Subsequently to the first fateful meeting – which might or might not have taken place in the graveyard where Miss Device was practising divination through animal bones – she had been so enamoured with the good pastor that she had decided to leave her circle of warlocks and alchemists, who’d been holed up for generations in their secret laboratories at the bottom of the London's sewers, for a life of light, charity and hardship side by side with Reverend Godwin Bennet.

"His aura is irresistible," Ms Device had justified herself in front of a shocked family Sabbath, "So pure it dazzled me. Not even a vague touch of Saturn! Mr Bennet’s astral orbit is perfectly devoted to his fellow men, and isn't it just wonderful? He’s like an angel on Earth!”

The last time the Devices had come face to face with an angel on Earth they had not retained any pleasant memories of the experience. In Heaven’s defence, though, an inverted cross, several toad legs and revolting quantities of garlic were involved at the time; a combination that never fails to draw a definite line between good and evil. Anyone who has a little experience of the world knows that, wherever excessive quantities of garlic make their appearance, there is a clear and steadfast need for divine intervention.

Her relatives had of course warned young Miasma: if she’d persisted in her madness and married her de-saturnized vicar she would lose her family name, together with any hope of being readmitted into the witching circle. Shrugging, Miasma had left behind hand-reading and phrenological maps, throwing herself body and soul into helping the poor and needy who sought shelter in her husband's parish.[1]

When a cholera epidemic took the newly-weds away just a few days apart, Heaven had not forgotten the works of Godwin and Miasma, and had sent an envoy to take care of their new-born daughter, Anathema.

Growing up among angels, however, allowed for fewer notes of poetry than one could imagine.

First of all, there was Gabriel's continuous scrutiny. The archangel was the highest-ranked in the circle of her holy godparents, and no detail escaped his extraordinarily violet eyes. Anything about Anathema seemed to give him a chance to offer some amused jabs.

_"Nat, sweetie, are you really going out with that hair?"_

_"Apple of my eye, your taste in combining accessories has always been peculiar, but I swear on my divine Grace that this time you have exceeded all expectations!"_

_“Still with your nose up in the stars? If you go on like this, taming that bushy hair of yours will be of no use, honey-pie. Humans don't want their girls to be curious. The more you learn, the fewer chances you will have of finding a good husband."_

Anathema loved Gabriel in the way you end up loving the rope that binds the ballast to your ankle: after years of being anchored to that kind of constant denigration, with the occasional diving in the pool of self-contempt, the burning of such a yoke was now part of her skin. She wasn't sure who she’d have been without the stern mirror of her flaws constantly reflected in Gabriel’s unforgiving eyes. Most of the time she refused to believe him; on other, rarer occasions, she felt grateful to have been tempered in the flames of such fierce criticism. Gabriel had made her infinitely more stubborn than she originally was: now, Anathema’s courage rose at every attempt to intimidate her.[2]

Michael controlled her in a more refined way. Despite her eyes being perpetually lost inside the newspaper, the elegant and strict archangel magically manifested in every room where Anathema was trying to hide, with the intent of reading the volume on Black Magic that she had found at the pawnshop in Tadfield and had begged Aziraphale to let her buy. Upon Michael’s sudden appearance, Anathema would shove the volume in the pocket of her day dress, just in time to save it from the angel’s prying eyes. Would she ever have five minutes alone to study the arts of her mother's family with the reverence they deserved? It appeared to be vain hope, of course. Wherever she was, whatever she did, Anathema was seconds away from hearing a sharp voice coming from apparently nowhere:

“ _Isn't it time for your piano exercises?”_

_“Anathema, you said you were going to visit Mrs Darlington before sundown.”_

_“What happened to those French conjugations? The books are still open on the desk.”_

_“That letter won't write itself, and you know Uriel will go to Tadfield in the morning. This is your last chance, young lady.”_

With Michael, there was always something left unfinished, a promise to be kept, a vow at serious risk of being broken. The calm in the archangel's voice allowed Anathema to glimpse at the gloomy abyss of consequences waiting for her on the other side of that brink, and such shadow was sufficient reason for her to leave everything else and hurry up finishing the tasks she’d left incomplete. Nobody in that house, Anathema suspected, would have liked to face the consequences Michael dictated.

The other angels weren't so singularly focused on observing her every move, but they had, in their own way, some peculiarities that had the power to disturb her just as much as to make her smile.

Sandalphon, for example. Under his conciliatory middle-aged appearance, he loved hunting, practising taxidermy and staring for hours at the paintings of the Torment of Saint Sebastian. His favourite colour was, of course, red. All the pieces of art covering his private rooms boasted several shades of carmine nuances, and almost exclusively depicted some dismembered body part or other - belonging to animals, humans and supernatural creatures alike.[3]

Anathema had made Sandalphon tremendously happy the day she had gifted him with a pair of blood-red leather gloves. Holding up his red-clad hands, he’d said they reminded him of the good old days of smiting in Sodom and Gomorrah. He could almost smell the salt in the air when he wore them. Anathema had reread the passage of the Bible that related the episode, and had consequently avoided eating any salty food for days.

Unlike their visceral brother, Uriel devoted themselves entirely to the intellect, spending days and sometimes whole weeks shut inside their personal study, drafting passionate political pamphlets that would miraculously rain on the London squares on the eve of a popular revolt. At times, they dedicated their energy to sermons that preachers with eyes full of the Holy Spirit would declaim in their small parishes, where the number of spiders that lived under the benches exceeded that of the parishioners who crossed the threshold of the church outside of the mandatory Sunday function. A large number of the aforementioned spiders had increased their productivity, inspired and frightened by the homily to the point that a church in Norwich had been entangled for a whole week in an impenetrable network of silver cobwebs.

Anathema was fond of each single angel who had raised her. It could not have been otherwise: she recognized their efforts in trying, otherworldly as they were, to find an acceptable place in the dimension of human beings, while missing the clear bright spaces of Heaven. They did all they could to provide her with the necessary connections for a dignified life. Whatever gesture of benevolence Reverend Bennet had made in the past, it must have been extraordinarily holy to have moved a whole host of archangels to such gratitude.

Among her winged relatives[4], however, the girl had a favourite, and that was the only Principality in the group.

Unlike his heavenly siblings, Aziraphale possessed a soft smile and a bright, witty gaze. He had always instigated Anathema’s love for books, and little did it matter that her favourite reads deviated from the rigidly religious education imparted by the rest of the Fell family. There was no journey from which Aziraphale returned without gifting her with books that were as precious as they were rare. There was no subject on which he hadn’t read in abundance, depth and great detail; and yet, he never gave her a lesson, but rather encouraged her to find her own answers, spreading an immense bibliography in front of her with the encouragement of his best smile and the promise of a discussion on the subject once she’d learned what she needed.

Aziraphale was the kind of figure a child would look up to with wonder and go to for guidance. His laughter was vibrant and clear; it lingered in the room and made it resound with joy. His hands did not skim the world of men with that vague sense of repulsion that supernatural creatures had when stooping to deal with mortals, but on the contrary they grasped, experimented, built and tried to understand.

Anathema was only a new-born when those hands had collected her for the first time from her mother's cold breast, but her soul had held on to that imprint. Whenever she felt trapped, misunderstood or chained to a destiny that shattered her aspirations, Anathema closed her eyes and got in touch with the fragment of a distant memory.

Voices, harmonious and far away, discussing her fate in a room full of supernatural light. Cold, and an excruciating hunger that tore her bowels apart, forcing her newly-born body to scream in order to drive out that uncontrollable need. Then, there had been the warmth of a squared, gentle hand. It had pushed her against a solid chest; on the steady heartbeat of the angel, the singing had begun.

When Aziraphale sang, everything went back to the place it belonged. Feelings. Scattered thoughts. Pieces of the world that made no sense to a girl torn between darkness and light. Every time Aziraphale sang to Anathema, all the noise ceased, and only the melody existed.

Not that he possessed the perfect voice that was expected from an angel. On the contrary, his tone was rich and warm, too deep for celestial harmonies and too loud for blending in a choir. It boomed from his chest and resonated fully in his mouth, pouring out of him like a wave of affection. To Anathema, Aziraphale’s songs were just that: pure, unadulterated love.

_  
Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly, lavender’s green_

_When I'll be king, dilly dilly, you will be queen..._

The young woman was presently humming to herself, standing against the high window of the library as she observed the leaden sky looming over the fields. She couldn’t help twisting her golden pendant between nervous fingers. It was a lovely little thing, adorned with two wings and a small bell: it was apparently one of the few legacies that had come from her father's side of the family, at least according to what the angels had told her. The delicate sound had the power to calm her, a feat that only the Principality’s voice could otherwise claim.

That day, Gabriel had been in a quite-extraordinarily good mood, which in itself was a harbinger of trouble. Could he have discovered her attempt to open the glass case? Anathema didn't see how. She had not only been careful to erase every trace of her passage, but she also had a rock-solid alibi thanks to the support of the precious Mrs Tracy and her niece, the young Miss Pepper. Neither lady minded telling a couple of white lies for her sake.

_What do you mean, Gabriel?_

_Me, entering the hidden room in your study?_

_A slander, of course. I have been happily engaged in a delightful walk with our lovely neighbours for the whole morning, and frankly I find it ridiculous that you would accuse_ me _of breaking into a room I didn't even know existed, until now._

_But please, don’t take me at my word, check the state of the petticoats I have left in my room, if necessary. You will find them loaded with mud from the aforementioned walk, and you will see then how unfair this hasty attribution of guilt has been!_

Anathema’s inner rehearsal of such speech, engineered with the kind of rhetoric that could sound natural enough to recall the tones of the naked truth, was interrupted when a guilty-looking Principality knocked on the open door.

"Anathema, my dear?"

The girl dropped the golden bell on her chest. An instantly relaxed smile flourished on her lips.

"Aziraphale. Since when does a king knock at the door of his kingdom? "

The angel gave her a tiny, bashful smile.

“A king? Nonsense, my dear. "

"If they could talk, your tomes would argue otherwise."

“We are lucky they are silent, then. I think they would have some complaints about the uncivilized treatment you give them. "

Aziraphale sat in a very royal fashion on the red brocade armchair, while Anathema jokingly brought a hand to her cheek.

“I wouldn't dare mistreat your beloved subjects, I fear your anger too much. "

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and produced, apparently out of nowhere, an antiquated and assiduously consulted copy of Romeo and Juliet, from which several paper scraps stuck out. The horror! There were indentations, too.

"What do you have to say in your defence, now?"

Anathema took the volume off him, and sat not far from where he was.

"First of all, Your Grace, these marks are not dictated by carelessness."

"Oh, really? And pray tell, what dictated them?"

"The impelling need of collecting quotations. For when I’d argue my case with you.”

“And the case would be…?”

“That the plot of your favourite play is utterly absurd."

The angel's face twisted in a grimace. Before he could object, Anathema said:

“Aziraphale, Romeo and Juliet meet on Saturday night and decide to get married the next morning! Not to mention that within six days they kill themselves, after dragging all the other young people in the city to ruin. I can't understand why you call it the greatest love story of all time. To me, it sounds like nonsensical carnage."

The angel's gray-blue eyes sparkled with wit and a hint of something else - something Anathema could not define. Instead of quoting the perfect sonnet of Romeo and Juliet’s first encounter, as the young woman half-expected, Aziraphale stood up and headed towards the big wooden globe which, suitably freed from its seals, revealed to be nothing more than a cupboard where the Principality hid quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol.

Up to that moment, Aziraphale had allowed his ward to have nothing more than a couple of glasses of port. Anathema was gobsmacked when Aziraphale returned to her with the crystal bottle in which he kept his best Scotch whisky, and two empty glasses.

"You don't make any allowance for true love, then?"

Again that grave note resonated in his voice, and that sad spark flickered in his eyes. What could have made him so melancholic that he had decided to let her have something so strong, and at that hour of the day?

Anathema accepted the offer with wary fingers. She moved the glass and let the amber liquid slosh against it: she’d have to eat something terribly spicy to hide the smell from the other angels at dinner-time. For that intoxicating drink that tasted of silk[5], however, it would have been worth it.

"I don't make any allowance for the whims of two fools who seem to be totally deprived of any crumb of common sense."

The angel raised his glass to her.

_"So young, and so untender?"_

Anathema didn’t miss a beat. _"So young, my lord, and true."_

Aziraphale laughed weakly, not without a certain dose of tenderness. Shakespeare was one of the languages of affection between them: they could disagree on the meaning and also on the value of a specific work, but the poetry in which it had been written spoke to both of them on such deep levels that Anathema, at times, thought that she and Aziraphale never communicated as easily and straightforwardly as when they’d used the words of the Bard. When one of them ended the verse that the other had begun, then they knew that their minds and hearts were in perfect unison.

“I'm afraid I infected you with my fondness for dusty books. It's not good for a girl your age." Aziraphale looked into the bottom of the glass, before saying, with too much joviality to be believed: "Don't you think it's a wonderful day? We should take a walk to Turpinfield Park. "

"And what scary monster is hiding at Turpinfield Park?"

Aziraphale shivered. Even though the smile hadn't left his face, his gaze had become metallic. "Monster? I don’t know what you mean."

“I’d have thought that old abandoned house was haunted by horrible ghosts. Why else would you need so much liquid courage," the young woman nodded towards the nearly empty glass, "to ask me to go there with you?"

The angel opened his mouth to reply, but not a single sound came out. He turned his face, showing her a profile that looked like it had been cut out from a Renaissance painting. Aziraphale let the whiskey slip against the glass. He took another sip.

"No monsters, my dear. A plain social engagement, that’s all."

"Social engagement, you say?"

She spoke that word as if she had bitten a particularly bitter fruit. Obligations, duties, afternoon visits: all that bowing and scraping was the daily bread of the archangels. Aziraphale had never cared, before.

"See, my darling girl, our new neighbours have taken possession of Turpinfield yesterday morning. Introducing ourselves would be the polite thing to do.”

"I thought that was Gabriel's job as the head of the family."

"It is, and this duty has obviously already been fulfilled."

“So why should you and I go? It's up to our neighbour to return the visit now. "

“I wonder who taught you to be so stubbornly contrary, dear girl. Wanting the last word at all costs is terribly unbecoming. "

Anathema allowed herself a half-smile, and pushed the reply as far as Aziraphale would permit her.

"You only say that because _you_ want to have the last word."

The angel shrugged, releasing an impatient snort. Anathema felt her heart swell with affection. Aziraphale possessed the kindest nature she had ever encountered: he had undoubtedly spoiled her, giving her a freedom of speech for which the archangels often scolded them both – her, for possessing it and using it on every possible occasion; him, for not having nipped it in the bud while he still could. Yet, despite being able to wield words as if they were daggers if he really wanted to, Aziraphale always took every reproach from superiors without saying a word. Sometimes, in using her cutting tongue against the archangels’ impossibly strict rules, Anathema tried to avenge her favourite godfather, too. Aziraphale had always encouraged her to be everything he had never been allowed to become.

The Principality in question left the glass on the low table next to the armchair, and grabbed the book that Anathema had carelessly placed on the table. He smoothed the pages with the back of his hand, before closing it delicately and replacing it in the nook that was patiently waiting for the book’s return.

"Could you please treat these tomes with a little care? I kept the series in impeccable conditions for one hundred and fifty years, I really can't allow you to..."

Anathema got to her feet and grabbed the volume of Macbeth, bound in precious burnished leather, the precise location of which she always remembered for having re-read it so many times. She lifted the book by the spine. The pages opened like petals of a flower, dangling in the shaky grip.

“Tell me the truth, Aziraphale. What’s the real reason you want us to go to Turpinfield?"

"Anathema Hypatia Bennet-Fell!" the angel snapped, gesturing in the direction of the tortured book. "Leave the Scottish Play alone, or ..."

Anathema shrugged. The worst threat that Aziraphale had ever uttered was _or I will never speak to you again_ , and he had never managed to deliver, anyway.

"The truth, and Birnam forest goes back safely on the shelf."

" _One hundred and fifty years_ , Anathema! This collection belonged to ... "

"Were it an infolio signed by Bard in fifty different spellings, I would throw it in the fire without second thoughts if you lie to me."

The flicker of sadness in the angel's eyes broke something inside her. The suspicion became a subtle, chilling fear.

The Guardian of the Eastern Gate placed only one thing above the well-being of his books. That thing had always been Anathema.

If he couldn't get mad at her now, it meant that the matter at hand was much more serious than she’d feared.

"Please." She couldn't stop her voice from faltering. "You are the only one who has always told me the truth."

Aziraphale inhaled loudly. His face seemed old, all of a sudden, charged with the millennia he claimed to have lived.

"Alright, alright. There is no need to resort to such violence, my dear, put down the book and I will tell you everything. "

With the suspicion still stuck in her throat, Anathema put Macbeth down. Aziraphale sat, as if suddenly hollow and boneless, in front of her. The young woman’s fingers drummed on the hard cover, as the angel explained that the family renting Turpinfield had social connections that would prove to be enormously important for Anathema's destiny.

Ah, that impending and mysterious destiny with which the archangels filled their mouths all the time, but that no one had ever bothered to explain to her.

The destiny they kept enclosed in a glass case, in the secret part of Gabriel’s study, that niche of Fellbourn that she shouldn't even have known about.

She shrugged. "Since when do you and I worry about such things?"

"As a protégé of Heaven, you were tasked with carrying the banner of Good and helping the angelic hosts to spread it through the ton, so that Her benevolence will triumph over the cruel side of men."

"The words of a true philanthropist."

The angel raised an eyebrow. "That’s exactly what I am."

"Undoubtedly, Aziraphale."

"Do I detect a trace of sarcasm in your statements, my dear?"

"I just find it odd that the one who spent the last dance with his nose lost in a book would show so much interest in his fellow man all of a sudden."

"I was merely waiting for the orchestra to play a gavotte. Is it my fault they never did?"

“You could have played whist like Uriel, or smoked a cigar in gentlemen's rooms like Sandalphon. Gabriel hasn't danced even once, but he has gathered more gossip in one evening than the Times does in an entire year. "

"If you're implying that I am some sort of deeply unsocial being ..."

“Let’s cut to the chase now, Aziraphale. Who rented Turpinfield? "

Ay, there was the rub.

The colour that the discussion had brought to the angel's cheeks was suddenly gone. Aziraphale cleared his throat, as he did every time he refrained from saying to his archangel siblings what he really thought - bad sign indeed. Anathema straightened the frame of her thick glasses, a rather weak defence against the angel’s upcoming answer. It would upset her, she was sure of that now. She wouldn’t be ready to hear it, and probably shouldn’t have insisted on it.

"Well, my dear, the estate was rented on behalf of a very wealthy young man from the north of England."

"His name?"

"Pulsifer."

"Married or free?"

Another grimace on the angel's face.

Oh. It had come to that, then.

“Let me guess. Gabriel branded my name on the poor man's flesh before I could even meet him."

"The metaphor has its charm, I have to admit."

A multitude of different emotions stirred in Anathema’s heart, mixing old fears, new anxieties and recurring annoyances.

"Why him, Aziraphale? Why not someone else?"

The angel's hands twitched.

"Well, first of all, Mr Newton Pulsifer is an upstanding young man with a considerably large income at his disposal, four thousand or five thousand pounds a year ..."

“This sounds like Hill's shopping list. What should I do with these ingredients? Cook poor Mr Pulsifer like a goose at Christmas? "

"Anathema, dear, please be serious."

“I'm serious, Aziraphale. _Damn_ serious. "

" _Anathema!_ "

Fine, the blasphemous addition was not strictly necessary, but a girl who only possessed her eloquence as a weapon must learn to how play dirty. Anathema rose to her feet, placing her hands on the table in a pose that both Gabriel and Michael would have found highly unseemly for her sex and rank. At that moment, Anthema would have threaded those reasons through their rusty haloes – multiple times, if necessary.

“It was pre-established, wasn't it? Heaven orders me to marry Newton Pulsifer, and this social commitment is only a farce. We are going to sign a contract, and I have no choice on the matter. "

To his credit, Aziraphale was really trying his best to sound calm and comforting. If it weren't for the stiff note in his words, Anathema would have been easily deceived.

“Your mind is racing, darling girl. We have only identified an acceptable young man whom we believe will bring prestige to your family's legacy and be worthy of the beautiful young woman you are. "

"So I guess I can turn him down if I don't like him."

The extra load of poison in her tone was calculated to the ounce. Aziraphale released a barely audible snort.

“Now you're determined to reject him regardless, for the sake of rebellion. A Romeo-and-Juliet effect on the contrary, isn’t it? And you saw how it turned out with those two. "

“If I am the victim of a contrary Romeo-and-Juliet effect, in my story everyone survives. Ergo, I can't be wrong. "

"The effect is opposite, the consequence unknown."

"Between certain death and the unknown, I know what I’d choose."

The angel snorted, frustrated.

"This cheap rhetoric is unworthy of you."

"Aziraphale." For the first time in forever, Anathema took the angel's hand, and squeezed his fingers through the white glove. She could feel the beat in her godfather's veins, that constant rhythm that had been the guiding star of her days. She sought his eyes, and let her voice slip into a fragile, vulnerable whisper. "Is there a specific reason why Heaven wants me married to this gentleman? What do you know about my fate? "

Crushed by Aziraphale's silence, Anathema dropped her hand. She got to her feet, slowly, but when her arm slid along the table and pulled the centenary volume with it, making it fall ungraciously, that was only the icing on the cake of her irritated scorn.

Aziraphale grimaced, but did not stoop to pick up the Macbeth. All his attention was focused on Anathema.

"I think I need some fresh air," she said.

“Excellent idea, we will both benefit greatly. Give me time to take the top-hat and ... "

"Alone, if you don't mind."

If there was one thing that Anathema, hag-seed that she was, had learned from her rigidly angelic education, it was the ability to hide the steel under layers of courtesy and molasses. However, that time something sharp surfaced. She saw the wound open in the crease of Aziraphale's lips, and in turn she bit her own. She left the room without listening to the whisper - always understanding, always terribly kind - of the only being she had always trusted.

She was no longer a child now. She was twenty-one years old, had made her debut in society for some time, and had the irrefutable right to know what the angelic legion desired from her.

Charity alone had perhaps prompted a cloud-white-haired angel to take care of an orphaned baby girl, but if a whole handful of archangels had come down to earth to make sure Anathema received the right education and respectable social connections then there was certainly a scheme, somewhere in the most remote corner of Paradise, with her name written in golden letters.

And Anathema Hypatia Bennet-Fell, who had a still sufficient trace of the Device witchcraft in her veins, would find out where that was.

With or without Aziraphale's help.

*

I picked up the Scottish tragedy, of course. It was the first thing I did when my dear Anathema rushed out of the room like fury, but now I realize that I don't know what to do. We never fight. We just don’t. What does one do, in the wake of such a disaster?

Turning my old volume over in my hands seems like the best option I have. So I caress the centennial cover as if it were alive and breathing.

_Don't fret, old chum. Your pages are not as ruffled as my feathers, anyway._

That girl. I've overindulged her, let her have her way always: now she doesn’t accept her role in the Great Prophecy. Brilliant job, Angel of the Eastern gate: tip-top indeed. This really went down like a lead balloon.

I don't know how long it has been since she left the room, but the whiskey bottle is empty and my forehead weighs against my open hand. My elbow is propped up on the table, but it could slip anytime. Maybe, if it did, I’d hit this useless head of mine and forget the awful conversation Anathema and I just had.

I didn't want to be the one to tell her about the arranged marriage, I really didn't. But I can't always delegate the most unpleasant parts of my duty to Gabriel, that wouldn’t be fair at all. I have taken responsibility for Anathema since the day Death brought me to her. Standing by her is a duty I would never delegate.

Almost six thousand years ago, I gave Eve my flaming sword. I thought that would be enough to protect her and the baby on the road ahead. How inconsiderate of me. I turned my back on God's favourite creatures, I abandoned them in the desert when I should have kept watching over them, like a real guardian. The last time I saw them was the day we buried Abel. Until the very last step that I will set on this Earth, I will carry the weight of that gaze, the one Eve gave me at the grave of the firstborn, whom I’d believed, with my gesture of many years before, to have saved.

The shoulders of angels are wide. They are made to bear witness to a world that is flaking under our fingers. We carry the dust and debris of time. A mother's grudge, in comparison, is a light load.

Still, I have her silent questions tattooed under my skin.

_Where were you when Abel died?_

_Where were_ all _of you?_

_Will we ever be forgiven for knowing nothing of good and evil?_

_Will we ever stop paying for biting an apple?_

"Why do you soil the temple of your celestial body with _that_?"

Gabriel has never been able to surprise me before: his steps are usually so firm that he makes his presence heard from the ground floor. Maybe it is the surprise, or maybe the liquor that kneads my throat and makes me forget my manners: I don't stand up in Gabriel’s presence. I barely lift my throbbing head from my hands.

"I do it for the servants. Obviously," I find myself mumbling. "They would become suspicious if the level of liquor in our bottles always remained the same."

Gabriel smiles, a gesture that produces in my ears the sound of a scratch on glass.

"That’s the same excuse you give when you eat twice the amount of food a human being would have."

“One of us must blend in with humans and their excesses, or we would be discovered too soon."

I expect to be reprimanded for my tone. Instead, I get a firm nod of assent from my boss.

“A commendable sacrifice on your part, Aziraphale. Your commitment to the current assignment has not gone unnoticed, I assure you. Wrap up this matter nicely, and there may be a promotion in store for you, directly from ... "

The archangel’s eyes and finger simultaneously point upwards, at a place beyond our ceiling, beyond the roof and the clouds, from which we know that our movements were constantly monitored. Gabriel is at the top of the chain of our little angelic command, but surely he doesn’t hold the highest position in the Hierarchy. There’s a myriad of cherubs and seraphs he has to answer to, and, even through my alcohol-induced haze, I understand that he is rather on edge about this whole matter of the Great Prophecy.

Fear runs through my stomach - a part of my corporation which, admittedly, I have allowed to expand to the excess. I am, indeed, too soft. This piece of criticism, on closer inspection, could reflect on my whole being.

A promotion, so. It would mean leaving Earth. Who would look after my girl and her descendants, if I left?

Gabriel takes a chair and sits right in front of me. He grabs the empty bottle between two fingers, sniffs the rim and pushes it away with a disgusted face. I have a feeling that this speech can’t be that positive, it will soon turn into an official reprimand, I just know it. My back straightens, but my head doesn't follow and continues to swim in whiskey instead. From a dark corner of my brain, a long-forgotten pirate song rises. Phoenician, maybe? Or Illyrian. I give up trying to find out the origin, and resolve to ignore it instead.

"It won't be a walk in the park, however," says Gabriel. "The girl has developed a rebellious character."

"Well," I object, still driven by alcohol, "She can be stubborn at times, but people tend to find it an endearing, or so I’ve been told. "

"Did you know she tried to enter the secret room in my study?"

Oh. This was unexpected.

"Our Anathema wouldn’t ..."

“She left traces of her aura everywhere. And worse still, Aziraphale: she used a dark spell to break the first barricade of my holy seals. Someone taught her the curses of her mother's family. "

I realise I chewed the inside of my cheeks only when I feel a taste of copper spreading on my tongue.

It's all my fault.

What was I thinking, letting her read those books on witchcraft?

At night, when I sit in bed to read, sometimes the embers in the fireplace distort and merge with the ashes of the bonfires. In a moment I am dragged back in time, in front of the pyres, with sparks that rain on me – searing on my skin the acrid smell of sizzling flesh, as my ears drown in the screams of those poor women who had the brazenness to let their power and intelligence be seen. Goodness gracious, it was no more than a century ago.

How could I allow my dear girl to play with such dangerous knowledge?

She had promised me never to practice any of those spells, and I was foolish enough to believe her.

"I suspect those annoying neighbours," continues Gabriel, "The woman, Tracy, and her irreverent brat. They have a bad influence on our precious ward, and if they really dabble into witchcraft it may be our duty to intervene... in a rather definitive way, if you know what I mean."

"No!" I all but shout, my head suddenly clear as a bell. Mrs Tracy and young Miss Pepper are the only friends poor Anathema has ever had. I can’t let them suffer for my mistakes.

The heat radiates down my neck as I try to ignore Gabriel's irritated expression. The words end up tumbling out of my mouth:

“Anathema is clever, Gabriel, you know that. Extremely so, actually. She could have put the spell together on her own. "

"On her own, you say?"

"Yes," I nod with the greatest emphasis I can muster, "It's in her blood, remember?"

The Archangel wrinkles his nose.

"Ah, if it were for me, I would never have allowed that witch's blood to contaminate the lineage of Abel! But unfortunately there was little we could do about it. That wasn’t the union we were supposed to tamper with. "

Praise the Lord for that. If Gabriel had things his way, my Anathema wouldn’t have been born at all, and this scenario scares me for much more selfish reasons than the Divine Prophecy and its contents.

Gabriel sighs. All of a sudden, every trace of bad mood disappears from his chiselled face. This new beaming grin terrifies me.

He pats me on the hand with a familiarity that I have never conceded - which, of course, doesn't seem to bother him at all. The Archangel Gabriel takes what he wants and treats you as he sees fit, whether you like it or not.

"So, when are you going to take the girl to meet the Fruit of Cain's Loins?"

How I hate it when Gabriel calls the Pulsifer boy _that_.

"Very soon" I smile through clenched teeth. "Tomorrow at the latest."

“Watch out, Aziraphale. The young human is under demonic protection. Even if a truce has been invoked, you can understand we cannot completely trust those beasts. If something goes wrong, send a sign: we’ll be in Turpinfield in the blink of an eye. "

I smile again, thank him, and address him with the usual pleasantries as he leaves the library.

Did Anathema really call this dusty room _my kingdom_? What nonsense. I'm the king of nothing, not even myself.

I never asked questions. As a silly, newly-minted angel I thought I didn't need to; now that millennia have gone by and naivety is a distant memory, I still don't ask, because I understand it's not my place. I'm too insignificant to comprehend what’s so much bigger than me.

The difference is subtle, but I feel it choking me like a lump on my tongue. Day after day, my loyalty to Heaven clashes more and more with my mission to take care of the girl I raised.

When I had to answer only for my life and my conscience, it was easier to have faith. But for her, I tremble. For her, the armour of my certainties begins to show its cracks.

Angels like me don't often dream, because we don't often fall asleep. The few times it happened, however, I have dreamed of opening the forbidden volume myself. I dreamed of unlocking the glass case and taking the Nice and Accurate Prophecies in my hands, only to find that every single page was blank.

We can't rule that out, can we?

It would be the essence of free will, after all. Decide for yourself what is right and what is wrong. Take a hold on your destiny, and fight to change it.

I try with all my might not to think of yellow eyes, curious and intelligent, staring at me on the walls of Eden just a few moments before the First Rain hit us. I try to drive away the words that still sail in my brain, which is presently too full of whiskey to remember all the good reasons to forget them.

_“Wouldn't it be fun if we both got it wrong, eh? If I did the good thing and you did the bad one? "_

I run my hands over my face, to erase the image that burns behind my eyelids. It breaks in a sizzle of colours.

I guess we'll know what's written in the book when Anathema marries Mr Pulsifer, and the bloodlines of Abel and Cain are reunited in them. This is what the Great and Only Prophecy says. Only then will the book open to us, we will know for sure what steps to take to facilitate the Great Plan.

Why is everything great in this story, except me, the one who should be its custodian?

I feel the opposite of great, right now. So tiny. Insignificant.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that the will of God is ineffable. In this truth, I choose once again to place all of my faith.

  
  
_Notes_

[1] It is perhaps worth considering that, more often than not, said help was given through the same remedies and tools that had earned Miasma a living as a witch: that is, knowledge of the herbs, intuition and the uncanny ability to read people's faces. With the same skills that had led her ancestors to the stakes, Miasma Device, known after her marriage only as Mrs Bennet, ended up creating for herself the reputation of a true saint.

[2] In a book by a certain lady this quote belongs to Elizabeth Bennet, while young Anathema in this humble retelling plays the narrative role of Jane Bennet: the reader would perhaps excuse the artistic license we took. Dear Anathema really, really wanted to utter these words, and we indulged her.

[3] The pair of black wings hanging on his bed were, to Anathema’s taste, particularly terrifying. She had spotted them for the first time during a game of Hide and Seek when she was seven, and was unable to sleep alone for the following fortnight.

[4] Where by wings we obviously mean spiritual manifestations, concealed, for the most part, on another plane of existence.

[5] Which, of course, she wasn’t tasting now for the first time. Despite the passionate speech she was ready to give to Gabriel, Anathema wasn’t exactly new to breaking the Fell household rules.


	3. Get thee behind me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anathema finds shelter at Potts Lodge, but Mrs Tracy's truth on women's destiny is a hard pill to swallow.
> 
> While Aziraphale is out looking for her, the girl meets a strange trio: an enthusiastic mechanic, a boy with a penchant for sarcasm and a tall man dressed all in black. Every time the latter speaks, Anathema's blessed pendant has the most alarming reaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is not abandoned, I promise! 
> 
> I am sorry it took me so long. Until a few days ago, work was all over the place... and now... well. Since we're are all forced to put life on pause, I thought I'd use this time to work harder on this fic and my other projects. I am writing chapter 4 in Italian right now (we're finally getting to some iconic moment - remember, "not handsome enough to tempt me?"), hopefully I'll have it translated in English in a couple of weeks. I am sorry for the slow pace, but I feel this story needs time to decant in my brain before I can put it down the way I want it to be.
> 
> The plot is becoming a little more adventurous than I initially thought it would be. I hope you'll still enjoy the Pride and Prejudice parallels, even though the supernatural element will change the tone of the original work at times - my aim is to entertain and I hope the result won't be disappointing! 
> 
> Extra Note: With Crowley and Warlock appearing in the story, I had to make a distinct choice: either passably historically-correct dialogue or In Character dialogue. In the spirit of Good Omens, I embraced anachronism and chose to stay as much in character as I could.

**Chapter 2: Get Thee Behind Me**  
  


“Before engaging in this battle of wills, love, have you at least ascertained whether the young man in question is attractive at all?”

From the moment she’d knocked on Mrs Tracy and Miss Pepper’s door, Anathema knew she’d made a mistake. After her bitter discussion with Aziraphale, running to Potts Lodge to seek in her human friends the comfort she hadn’t found at Fellbourne had felt the natural thing to do; however, the very specifically human nature of her confidants did not allow her to explain the core of the problem.

How could she tell them about the book of prophecies that Gabriel kept under lock and key?

How could she explain that a whole host of angels ordered her to get married, and that she was under the dreadful impression that much more depended on this marriage than just her life?

“Mr Pulsifer’s looks aren’t relevant, Mrs Tracy,” she replied, blowing on the jasmine tea that her host had kindly served. Anathema had to contain her frustration somehow. Explaining the divine nature of the Great Prophecy and the biblical weight of her destiny was not a feat to be undertaken at tea time.

The mistress of the house brought a slender hand against her own chest.

“Of course they are, my dear. If Pulsifer is appropriately attractive, what reason do you have to refuse a meeting?”

“The way I see it”, said Pepper, who, despite her young age, rarely refrained from contributing to a conversation when this gave her the opportunity to express her ideas, “this frenzy to get married at all costs is pure nonsense. Miss Anathema is smart and capable, she doesn’t need a man to weigh her down. If her family doesn’t understand this, she can come and live with us. We are free, here.”

Mrs Tracy smiled, giving her grandniece an indulgent little pat on the arm, which caused the girl to roll her eyes in a rather blatant manner.

“You and I are hiding in here, pet. Away from the eyes of those who have decided that we are damaged goods.”

“None of us are _goods_!” Pepper cried in outrage.

Mrs Tracy nodded. “Of course we’re not, that goes without saying. But our position is delicate, isn’t it? We have to act as wise stewards of ourselves. In this, we surely must be much more cunning and calculating than men, don’t you agree?”

Mrs Tracy raised a calm and smiling glance on Anathema. There was a wise gravity in her gaze, in dire contrast with the light tone of her voice.

“This is why I think you should give Mr Pulsifer at least a chance. If you have an opportunity of winning this game, it is your moral duty to play every card at your disposal.”

“And marriage would equal victory?” asked Anathema, as more contempt spilt through her voice than she had intended to let out.

“Safety, my dear, is the only true victory.”

Mrs Tracy placed the cup on the saucer with the sort of carefully crafted elegance that suggested she had once trodden the boards. And yet, despite the outlandish attires she donned in private, when she was in public the rich widow behaved with all the restraint and compunction expected from her role, sporting the conduct of a noblewoman and the modesty of a nun. Having married a respectable gentleman had allowed her into a niche of decorum, to which she was still entitled after her husband’s passing — as long as she never let her scandalous past shine through.

What a tremendous effort it must have been to change masks all the time. Anathema could not put herself in the woman’s shoes, and shivered at the idea that perhaps, one day, in order to maintain her independence she would have to learn those same arts of deception.

Pepper swelled her cheeks, searching for something to reply in the face of her aunt’s final statement. When the inspiration did not strike her, the child declared that she would reconstruct Boadicea’s military campaign against the Roman invaders with her dolls, and excused herself to the corner of the room.

Anathema didn’t miss the look of overflowing affection that Mrs Tracy addressed to her niece as she moved away.

“I let her cultivate dangerous ideas”, the woman whispered, not without a trace of regret.

“At least, they’re _her_ ideas,” Anathema noted, and didn’t say that she shared them. Perhaps embracing the same perspective as an 11-years-old girl, however smart and precocious, did not exactly honour her supposed maturity.

Mrs Tracy placed the cup on the coffee table, in a jingle of enamelled pendants and silver.

“Society is a cruel place, Anathema. Dangerous for women who are too fragile and for those who are too strong, for all those who weren’t born to fill silk stockings and had to fight for a pair of shoes instead. Believe me, it can be Hell out there for those who haven’t got good cards in their hand.”

Anathema’s glasses had suddenly become quite extraordinarily heavy. She pushed them back on the bridge of her nose, clearing her voice as he watched Pepper play with her dolls on the other side of the room.

Mrs Tracy’s beloved protégé did not often appear in society, and that was for her own protection. Since she had come to live with her eccentric aunt, there had been unpleasant comments in Tadfield, and malign gossip slithered between the pews at the Sunday service. The roguish nephew of the late Mr Tracy had fathered Pepper as a result of a clandestine rendezvous and thought he’d made right by his baby daughter by allowing her relatives to raise her. The girl grew up to be beautiful, intelligent and full of spirit; and yet she was meant to be confined in the countryside until the last of her days, far from any connection that would help her talents blossom. All because her father, while loving her tenderly and taking care that she lacked nothing in terms of education and comfort, refused to be publicly associated with his dark-skinned daughter.

Anathema bit the inside of her cheek. She would have given Pepper the whole world if she could. The anger she felt for her young friend refreshed the never-rested hatred for Gabriel.

_Nat, dear. The more you learn, the fewer chances you have of finding a husband._

Let it be so. She didn’t need anybody. She would be more than content living at Potts Lodge, with Pepper and Mrs Tracy; all three isolated from the world, as eccentric and outspoken as they liked, with no one pointing fingers at their supposed inadequacy.

She almost flinched when she felt Mrs Tracy’s hand resting on her own.

“Listen to me, love. I don’t know what's stewing in that hot head of yours, but think twice before you refuse this opportunity. Pepper and I love you very much, you know, but you’re not like us.”

“Mrs Tracy…”

“You have received better cards than ours. Don’t you understand? By winning your game, you will win for us, too.” The woman’s hand was wrapped in delicate silk. Through the precious cloth, Anathema felt the roughness of her fingerpads, skin that had known work and blisters before being covered in luxury. “You can make it out there, you know? You can fit the figurine that society wants to cut around you. Don’t fight it, Anathema: wear it like a glove instead, learn how to move inside it. From the margins, where we are, you could do nothing. Take to the stage instead. Put on that mask and make it yours. This is the only way you can be free.”

Anathema thought of those words long and hard. She thought about them on her way back to Fellbourne and looked at every angle of Mrs Tracy’s perspective — even if the thought took her breath away.

The suggestion was clear. Meeting expectations in order to subvert them. Playing by the rules to be able to bend them from the inside. All of this required such scheming skills that she felt exhausted just thinking about it. Anathema was never good at concealing herself. She would give anything to get her hands on a spell that would teach her how to blend in with the crowds, to lower her voice, to make herself invisible.

She looked at the sky. It was still leaden; clouds had turned to lilac, promising rain and shadows. She toyed with the idea of stopping in a clearing between the thickets to finally read the book of spells that she always carried with her. But daylight was fading. She should have returned to Fellbourne before Gabriel unleashed a whole host of Virtues to find her.

She stopped rather abruptly when, in the field not far away, a puff of smoke raised into a dark black column. It was not an uncommon sight: before Michaelmas, the farmers had begun to collect dried leaves in tall stacks, ready to get rid of them in majestic bonfires. None of those fires, however, had ever crackled so intensely, nor had it smelled so clearly of sulfur.

In a sudden blaze, the winged pendant she wore around her neck turned incandescent. Anathema had to pull it out from under her clothes with careful hands. The pale gold was lit with a bright orange hue, like an ember revived by a blow of the wind.

When Anathema was in the presence of angels, the pendant was always as cold as ice.

Following a very elementary thought-process, if now the blessed metal had the opposite reaction it could only mean that...

“Five more minutes, Mr Crowley. Just let me fix this strap, I’m sure that...”

“You said that twenty minutes ago. That’s enough, I’m going back.”

Male voices came from the field. The pendant did not react to the first one, but, when a second followed, heat radiated once again along the chain, forcing Anathema to let go of it and bring blistered fingers to her lips. The angelic artefact fell, emanating smoke, on the dampened earth.

“So? Are you coming?” said the husky voice.

“Please, sir, just give me another five minutes. Not a second more, I promise.”

“It’s cold. It’s wet. There's nothing interesting going on. If you’re not burning the fields down in five minutes, I’m going back to Turpinfield.”

To her utter shock, Anathema saw the Bennet family pendant cover in a charred patina. She knelt, pulled out her handkerchief and wrapped it all around the heirloom. Through layers and layers of fabric, the heat dispersed enough to allow her to hold the wrap comfortably.

“Oh, I'm definitely staying for this,” a third voice said. It was definitely higher in pitch compared to the first two. “Have I told you I’m writing a book? I called it: _A Thousand and One Ways Newt Can Make a Fool of Himself_. This seems a good premise for chapter eight hundred and thirty-two.”

The pendant showed no reaction.

Anathema squeezed the handkerchief in her fist, and, staying well hidden behind the trunk of a birch, she lurked towards the edge of the grove, hoping to spot the mysterious people gathered in the field.

She could see three human figures – or, at least, figures that _looked_ human in shape and size. One was smaller and thinner than the other two: it must have belonged to a boy barely older than Pepper. The second was a young man, scandalously not wearing a jacket, and sitting astride something that, for all intents and purposes, looked like a metal box roughly fitted with pistons and...

Legs?

Well, those metallic tubes certainly had the shape of proper limbs.

The undefined contraption was the cause of the pestilential smoke that Anathema had smelled from afar.

“It won't be a waste of your time, I promise”, the enthusiastic engineer replied. “It will work, there’s no doubt about it. I studied the design for five months before even touching a cog.”

“You couldn’t leave this carcass in London, could you? No, of course, you had to drag it all the way to Oxfordshire. For Sss-omeone's sake, we could have been here a week ago, then it wouldn’t have been this cold!”

The man who had just spoken sported a slender figure, all clad in black. His long neck was wrapped in a scarf of the same colour - although the temperature was far from frigid. Tall top hat, long redingote: even from afar it was impossible not to notice the perfect cut of his clothing. Between the collar of his jacket and the rim of the hat, Anathema noticed a lock of dark-red hair.

The winged pendant pulsed through the layers of cloth as if to warn her.

Who was that creepy man? The blessed amulet didn't like his presence at all.

“ _Good Lord,_ it's a _miracle_ it has remained in one piece so far," said the boy.

“Warlock,” The man in black lowered a pair of tinted glasses on a prominent nose. “Mind your language, or I’ll cut out your tongue and feed it to the rats.”

The boy shrugged, unflinching at the dreadful threat.

“I’m sorry, Mr Crowley,” he singsonged, “No blessing outside the house, I know.”

“No blessing at _all,”_ replied the man in black. “A proper little hellspawn your age should plan on taking over the world, and speak like someone who means it. Newt!” The man shivered, wrapping the scarf tighter around his shoulders, “Are we done yet?”

The mechanic wiped the sweat off his face with his forearm. The sleeve left behind a long black smudge that drew a bridge between the young man’s eyebrows. If he noticed, he didn’t seem to care.

“Almost.”

“Oh, for Asmodeus’s stinky beard!”

“It will be worth the wait, Mr Crowley, I promise you. Your mechanical horse will be a wonder, or my name isn't...”

While the young man uttered that solemn promise, the contraption moved with a great leap forward, crackling louder than before.

“Ah!” the mechanic threw his hands in the air, “I told you, it moves, it works!”

“If I were you I'd get off that thing before it explodes,” said the boy called Warlock.

“Not before I complete the maiden lap. Look, Mr Crowley! The mechanical horse is working! After all my failed attempts, I finally built a machine that works... Hey, why isn't the lever... this filament shouldn't really...”

Another burst, more intense, projected the contraption several yards forward, pushing it across the path at sustained speed.

“Get off, you reckless dummy,” the man in black, shouted, “You’ll break another bone if you...”

“I can’t... oh, bother, the brakes don’t... Mr Crowley? Mr Crowley, help...”

The infernal machine swerved at full speed; in horror, Anathema realized that it was about to crash against the birches grove.

Anathema would forever have trouble explaining what happened next, even to herself.

Had it been a miracle?

Or rather a lucky coincidence with relatively catastrophic consequences?

The only thing she was sure of was that the metal contraption had crashed into the tree behind which, until a few moments prior, she was hidden. The impact had snapped the trunk of the birch — which, instead of crushing over her head, had stopped mid-air, as if frozen in time. Anathema had thrown herself to the ground to find shelter from the fall, but she soon found herself crushed under the mechanic —who was definitely heavier than he looked— while stones and branches pressed against her aching back.

Her glasses were lost somewhere in the rubble. When she rose up, shrugging off the stuttering young man wrapped in oil-stained clothes, she semi-blindly went to feel the muddy ground, looking for them.

“Have you lost your mind?" she yelled, to release the tension rather than out of real anger. Alright, she couldn’t see well without her glasses, but was that broken trunk really levitating in mid-air? Something must have interrupted its descent, but Anathema really couldn’t figure out what.

“I am so, so sorry miss, I believe I have found...”

“Conducting experiments like that in the open!”

“Yes, well, if you would allow me...”

“Allow you? I allow you nothing at all! What were you thinking, sir, I really can’t...”

Suddenly, she felt the burden of the familiar frame on her nose.

One of her eyes regained clear vision; the other had to adapt to the crack that ran through the lens. Beyond that line, Anathema met the biggest, most intensely blue irises she had ever seen. They looked worried, dazed and a little entranced.

“I found your glasses. That’s what I was trying to tell you.”

“Oh.” She found herself out of words, for the first time in forever. “Well, thank you.”

Was she supposed to thank the man who had caused the accident in the first place? He looked so embarrassed, so mortified.

And not at all unpleasant to the eye.

“My deepest apologies, miss, I had no idea... Please tell me you are well. Are you well? You look more than perfect to me. No, uh, I mean...”

“Newton!”

The voices of the man in black and the child merged into a concerned call as they rushed towards the pair on the ground.

“Oi, are you all in one piece?"

The young man reluctantly tore his gaze away from Anathema, and set it on the man in black.

"No bones were broken this time. Can I consider it progress, perhaps?"

The slender man rolled his eyes behind the dark lenses.

"How many times do I have to tell you? Machines aren't your thing! Stop trying, _hellfire and damnation,_ and take up something else! _Fencing, mesmerism, embroidery, anything but this!_ "

“Anyway," Warlock chirped in, "I think I just stepped on your glasses.”

The fact, for some reason, didn't cheer the man in black up one bit.

“This is the last time, Newton Pulsifer, I swear on S-“

While the boy handed the young man a pair of glasses much more battered than Anathema's, the man in black seemed to notice her for the first time. He glared at her behind the tinted lenses. Anathema caught a glimpse of his gaze through those dark screens, and fear ran through her bones.

“Come on you, stand up,” the man told her. “Nothing happened.”

There was a soothing note in his voice, as if he wasn’t just inciting her to rise. As if he was planting the seed of a different reality in her mind and waiting to see it sprout.

“You haven’t met us, girl. You haven’t seen anyone in the fields. You got scared because a lightning bolt hit a tree not far from where you were walking, but luckily you moved away just in time to avoid it.”

“I...”

Anathema let the stranger in black touch her elbow as he helped her up. For a moment, among the trees, a glimpse of the faint sunset light allowed her to see the dark shape of his pupils. They were slitted, like a snake’s.

Her witch’s blood boiled up. A sudden blaze enveloped the handkerchief, burning quickly and consuming the cloth until only charred strips were left.

The boy and the young man held their breath. The man in black clenched his thin lips.

“Alright. So, you must be...”

“ _Anathema!_ ”

Aziraphale’s voice fell on them like a whip.

Anathema felt the hand of the angel around her wrist, and a moment later she was sheltered behind his back. Great white wings tore the fabric of reality and unfolded behind the Principality, shielding the young witch from the enemy standing in front of them.

No. More than a common enemy.

The _Adversary._

When Aziraphale spoke again, his voice held the echoes of Creation.

“ _Get thee behind me, foul fiend_. The girl is protected.”

***

I can’t believe what I’m seeing, right now.

My girl, and _him._

My Anathema, next to the only being in the whole universe that I never wanted to see again.

As soon as I realised that it was going to rain, I went out with the biggest umbrella I could miracle, determined to find my girl and bring her home. The reason for our earlier discussion was trivial, after all: I was certain we would find a way to talk about it in a calmer, more civil manner. All that mattered to me was to know she was safe.

I wish I could claim to have somehow known what was going on, but I never was that kind of creature. Someone like me doesn’t have precognitions, can’t possibly be open enough to _feel_ anything in their guts. Too self-centred, too distant and aloof. I really didn’t know Anathema was in danger: I just walked towards Potts Lodge, the only place that would give her shelter away from Fellbourne, and found her half-way.

To say that I did not expect to see her in such a company is a fine understatement.

I was supposed to bring said company to her under the protection of a sacred seal imprinted by the Archangels. Only then it would be safe to meet the Fruit of Cain's Loins and his occult guardian.

The demon I couldn’t stop in Eden.

My own foul fiend.

There is no blessed shield, now, between my Anathema and the demonic spawns that surround her. And what about that sort of... chariot crashed against the tree? Is that part of a convoluted hunting ritual I don’t remember reading about?

It doesn’t matter. I wield my umbrella as I would a sword, and, just because I believe it will, in a matter of seconds the brolly is engulfed in fire. The echo of a memory makes my bones quiver.

“ _It was flaming like anything. What happened to it? Lost it already, have you?”_

“ _I gave it away.”_

“ _You_ what _?”_

“ _I gave it away!”_

I clasp the handle of the flaming umbrella. Crowley surely forgot that first exchange between us. There’s no reason I should remember it, either.

The dark-haired boy gulps, his clear eyes full of awe.

“Now, _that’s_ a miracle! Crowley, can you do it too? Why haven’t you made me a flaming foil? I'd practice every day if you did.”

The demon in black doesn’t reply. I study his aquiline features, the cheekbones as sharp as blades. Dangerous as ever. Alluring as ever.

“Angel.”

I swallow hard. His name claws up my throat, it leaves blood on my lips as I speak it.

“The demon Crowley. It has been a few centuries.”

“Elizabethan England, if I recall correctly?”

“1613, the fire of the Globe Theatre. Unfortunately for you, I was there to foil your plans.”

“Sure, you always are.” There's the bite of sarcasm in his words. I have never been able to despise this side of him, since it's a sign of wit and intelligence. Seeing the good in the enemy is part of an angel’s essence, I suppose. “Thanks to you the audience and the artists escaped before the theatre collapsed. Point for Heaven, that time.”

“Your side would have reaped many souls that day if it had been otherwise.”

“At least I enjoyed the show. Chaos everywhere, screaming actors, nobles crying out for their nannies. I should thank you. I’ve never had so much fun at the theatre before.”

“Good, Crowley, is destined to triumph over evil. You should know by now.”

Crowley shrugs and points to my flaming umbrella.

“So, I see things are going well on your side of the barricade, eh? New service weapon and all, good for you.”

Behind me, Anathema coughs.

“Please tell me it wasn’t my favourite umbrella, Aziraphale. The one with the nice frills?”

“What?” I almost choke on the word. “No! No, of course, I would never set fire to...”

While I’m still trying to find the words that clearly delight in escaping me, the young man with large blue eyes and the hairdo of a chick just fallen from the nest takes a step towards me, not at all impressed by the white wings I still keep unfolded to shield Anathema.

“Mr Fell, I presume? It is an honour to meet you, sir. My tutor, Mr Crowley, has the utmost respect for your work. Please let me introduce myself, I am...”

“Newton Pulsifer,” says Anathema, slightly scorned, peeking from behind my primaries.

“Well, yes,” the youth admits, as if he were confessing a capital sin. “Miss, how do you...”

“This is _her,_ Newt” scoffs Crowley. “The girl. For the _thing._ ”

“Oh”, says Warlock. “you’re a lucky devil, aren’t you, Newt? One like her could do so much better.”

Mr Pulsifer turns several shades of dark red. The sight somehow gives me relief. I was worried about the young man’s character, but I have to say: so far, for someone raised by demons, he seems to be a decent sort of fellow. Apart from the fact, of course, that he appears to have tried to kill Anathema with a mechanical chariot.

“Well” Crowley steps in, with the annoying nonchalance I’ve seen him throw around for millennia now. Irritating man indeed. Got right under my skin from the start. “It’s not exactly what we had planned, but we could take advantage of this reunion, couldn’t we? Tea at our place?”

I hold my flaming umbrella tighter. “I don’t think so, Crowley. Not without the right seals in place.”

“Come on, angel. We have a madeleine cake. And _macarons._ Did I forget to mention that our cook is French?”

Wily tempter. How does he know I have a penchant for human desserts? Especially the French ones.

Of course. Collecting intelligence about me and my siblings is part of his job.

It takes all of my determination to shake my head and grab Anathema’s hand.

“We’ll see you at the Tadfield Hall ball. Not an hour earlier. And the whole host will be there, _obviously_.”

Crowley nods, his grin is tight. I wish I could see what’s going on behind those tinted glasses.

“So will our legion. _Obviously.”_

Is the felon mocking me? Oh, he will regret it. I don’t know how, but I will make him regret it, no doubt about that.

“Until then, gentlemen. Farewell.”

I spare no other glance for the youth and the boy, and I walk away, dragging Anathema with me as the flames disperse around the umbrella and my wings gently fold again inside the pocket of reality to which they belong. My strides are wide and fast, and I know Anathema struggles to catch up. The nerves might have released a bit of the angelic strength I normally try to disguise.

“So that young man was...” she mumbles, stumbling behind me.

“Yes.”

“And the gentleman with him, he definitely _was..._ ”

“Yes, dear, I’m afraid so.”

“Aziraphale.” Anathema stops walking. The gentle tug on my hand is enough to stop me, too. I turn to look at her, and I am horrified to see her face broken with doubt. “Should I be scared?”

I grab her shoulders, hold her eyes with mine. It will be alright, it’s like when she used to wake up from a nightmare and I sat by her bedside to calm her.

Use the right voice, Aziraphale, use the gentlest breaths and the softest words.

But don’t lie to her, this time.

Tell her something that’s comforting, and also true.

“Never, dear girl. Not as long as I’m by your side, and that means forever. You know that, don’t you?”

Anathema draws in a deep, shuddering breath. There’s a crack in the lens of her glasses. She looks like a child who has fallen off her pony, and puts up a brave face until she sees the bruises on her knee.

She smiles for a split of a second, then buries her face against my shoulder. Tears soak my coat, and we both pretend we didn't notice.

“Yes. Yes, I know.”

And I hold her, of course I do. I whisper a song in her ear. She knows what it means. It’s my unbreakable promise, my first and last vow to her.

_Don’t you worry, my dear._

_I won’t let anything bad happen to you._

_I have kept you safe on Earth so far, and if I need to..._

_Well, I suppose I'll keep you safe all the way down to Hell, too._


	4. Not Handsome Enough to Tempt Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The demonic and angelic seals are in place. The Tadfield Hall Ball is on, and the room is buzzing with excitement: Mr Pulsifer and his party are joining the Tadfield society for the first time, and everyone can't wait to meet and assess the new neighbours. 
> 
> The humans don't know that they're dancing on dangerous ground. 
> 
> Even on the brink of a supernatural skirmish, there is still, of course, time for our heroes to mingle and mess up their already strained relationships. Anathema finds an unexpected ally, Warlock reads Shakespeare to Aziraphale, and Crowley stings the angel's vanity so much that an affronted Principality plots some retaliation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How are you doing? 
> 
> Whatever is going on with you at the moment, I hope you are safe, and that this chapter provides some distraction.
> 
> Finally, we get to some Austenesque Pivotal Moment! I have to say, describing people who are dancing while conversing is a special kind of hell. R.P. Tyler takes a bit of an unusual role here, but I couldn't resist a quick reference to Wilde's An Ideal Husband and I thought the whole situation would be amusing. The almost-quote from Notting Hill was an accident, but it felt good enough to survive several editings ^_^
> 
> Ps: the rating has changed due to some future events that will affect the plot - not sure if some references to the backstory might fit the T rating, so I preferred to be on the safe side. Plus, I have a couple of wild cards I might play before the resolution, so... yes, definitely safer with Mature :D

**Chapter 3: Not handsome enough to tempt me.**

Miss Angelica Fell rarely came to Tadfield.

Her first and only visit had been on the occasion of Anathema’s official coming out into society, four years before; the locals, so little accustomed to new faces, had buzzed around her like bees to honey – which was precisely Anathema’s design when she had begged Aziraphale to change his corporation into a feminine one for the event. Of course, in order to convince her godfather to yield she had to insist on another aspect of the situation.

“I’ll need at least an ally of my own sex in the room” _,_ she had told him.

As always, Aziraphale didn’t give an inch without at least a little protest. The upturned nose crinkled, and Anathema steeled herself for one of his sermons.

“Angels are sexless by definition my dear, unless we specifically make... but this is not important, now. I’m sure Michael would be glad to oblige you.”

“I said an _ally,_ Aziraphale, not a guard who snatches away my cup of punch before I can even sniff it.”

“Oh. So I have to assume you are asking for my help to get drunk.”

“I just need someone to keep me company throughout the night.”

“And _what_ in my current corporation prevents me from keeping you company?”

“Well, nothing, of course. Every debutante yearns to be seen in constant proximity of her guardian. Her future success in society actually depends on how tightly she holds on to his sleeve.”

“Would it be any different if you held on to my skirts instead?”

“Aziraphale. _Please.”_

Heaven’s protégé had a pretty long experience in the field of winged guardians. An angel could huff, protest and at times even pretend they were not listening, but they weren’t really able to refuse a prayer when it came from the heart.

At least, an angel as soft as Aziraphale couldn’t. About the likes of Gabriel, she still had her reservations.

And that was how and why Miss Angelica Zipporah Fell was introduced to the world for the first time.

Her appearance had caused much gossip and many admiring comments, from men and women alike. Aziraphale might have accepted the change, but he was still as resistant to progress as always. His long platinum curls were styled so that they’d partly coil at the top of his head in thick plaits, and partly fall on his shoulders. All in all, he looked like a lovely lady whose style would have been called posh forty years before. He claimed that the dated hairdo made him feel more comfortable than _“those badly executed copies of roman curls girls wear nowadays, what a nonsensical turn of fashion, one can’t find a good_ calamistrum[1] _if he paid his weight in gold to have it, and those modern curling tongs really don’t produce the same effect”;_ naturally, his clothes, too, were reminiscent of some beautiful paintings portraying the contemporaries of Granny Bennet in the splendour of their youth.

Of those paintings, however, Angelica also had the natural elegance in her bearing and the otherworldly smile, qualities which made her shine like a pearl among common pebbles: the people in the room didn’t take long to notice. Perhaps Aziraphale wouldn’t admit it, but his feminine alter ego had greatly appreciated the good company and polite conversations that had entertained her for the whole night. Under the appalled glance of the Archangels, she was even persuaded to dance. Her partner’s feet were probably the most offended by her daring enthusiasm; to his credit, though, the man grinned and bore it well. Any residual trace of pain dissolved from his face as soon as he met the Angel’s beaming eyes. Once the dance was over, he told her he had to sit down for a while since his age was not so green anymore, but by Zeus, he surely had had the honour of leading the best dancer in the room. He had then fallen into something resembling a dreamy state of pleasure, like a man touched –and not at all stepped on– by the divine.

The mysteriously charming Angelica Fell had disappeared after the ball, leaving behind a trail of rumours and broken hearts. Now, four years after her first appearance, the imminent Tadfield Hall Ball required her return: this time, though, on Aziraphale’s insistence.

When her godfather announced he would show up at the ball as Angelica, Anathema replied:

“I thought you didn’t want me to hold on to your skirts.”

Aziraphale gave her a tight smile.

“The first time wasn’t a complete disaster after all.”

“What if I told you I don’t need you to hold my hand?”

“Well, I’d probably tell you that I’m the one who needs to hold yours.” Then, like the magnificent bastard he was, he added: “Anathema, _please_ ”.

The truth was Aziraphale didn’t really need to resort to low tricks to persuade her. Since her meeting with the Demon Crowley and his wards, Anathema had been happy to go anywhere with the Principality in tow. After a lifetime spent trying to avoid her godparents’ control, she now found herself breathless as soon as she was alone in a room. In the quiet of the setting dusk, she could still see the winged pendant devoured by a charcoal patina as the sound of Crowley’s voice turned it into a scalding ember. Her hands still burned at the memory, under the layers of skin that Aziraphale had repaired with a healing miracle. Even her mother’s spellbook, always hidden in her dress, had slipped to last in the list of her most pressing concerns. In her heart, Anathema still held the same fear she had experienced the day of the accidental meeting: muted, now, and locked up in the solid casket where she kept the feelings she didn’t want to feel – but ever-present, nonetheless.

More than anything, the memory of the demon’s wild eyes tormented her. She couldn’t forgive herself for letting his soothing voice coil around her thoughts, moulding them, erasing the memory of what she’d just witnessed. The mere idea made her sick in the stomach.

She was exhausted. Since she could remember, everyone around her wanted to bend her will to their convenience. Now another supernatural entity had joined her oppressors, and his goals were certainly more sinister than the Archangel’s. They had to be, given what he was.

The young humans following Mr Crowley, on the other hand, hadn’t looked really threatening. That Warlock boy had at least the air of a contrary Mary with a promising career in mischief ahead of him, but Pulsifer? The man was painfully naive, this much was evident. Of course, their first meeting hadn’t been the best situation to assess his character, but Anathema knew a thing or two about auras, and the man’s was disarmingly positive. Newton Pulsifer might have been lacking in many areas but surely not in good intentions.

Then, the night of the Tadfield Hall Ball came.

Surrounded as she was by a joyous atmosphere, Anathema was trying not to squint too hard. Her eyes felt naked without glasses. It had been Gabriel’s idea, of course: better to have her orbits ache for the effort of focusing on far-away objects rather appearing disfigured by what the archangel had called “ _a distasteful heap of rickety metal”_. It was hard to see clearly, but that hadn’t discouraged her from scanning the room, looking for the face of her alleged groom-to-be. Pulsifer’s arrival was supposed to be the main event of the evening. All of Tadfield was waiting for the new neighbour’s entrance with some trepidation.

Not that Anathema recalled the man’s features that well; his eyes, though, had left an impression. They were bright, almost pale in colour, surely luminous. When one was used to living under an iron sky, it was way too easy to forget how warm a sliver of blue could be.

“Our girl seems thoughtful, Angelica,” said Mrs Tracy, smiling at Anathema. “Almost as if she were waiting for someone.”

“ _‘I am to wait, though waiting so be hell’ **[2]**_ ,” Aziraphale whispered, low and dark.

Under other circumstances, maybe Anathema would have answered with the final verse of the sonnet; instead, that time she just sipped her punch. Michael was walking around the room, most elegant in her dark jacket and damasked waistcoat in delicate hues of lilac: the archangel was talking to everyone without saying anything of importance to anybody. If she’d had spotted Anathema with a drink in her hands she would probably have given her a severe public lecture. The young woman held her glass tightly. Thank Heavens, the loquacious Mr Tyler seemed to have cornered Michael in a punctilious conversation; with such titans of fastidiousness as contenders, she was almost curious to see who would win.

“My ladies, I swear, both of you are in a terrible mood tonight,” Mrs Tracy whined in a rather theatrical tone. She was currently wearing a dove-grey gown with lines so rigid they suffocated the most part of her natural exuberance, giving her the posture and demeanour of a dowager queen. Another stage, another mask. “It’s almost as if _you_ had to refuse the tenth proposal from R.P. Tyler this week.”

“The tenth?” said Aziraphale, still lost in his thoughts. “I believed we’d reached twelve, counting last Sunday after the service.”

Anathema clutched his arm to warn him, and the angel’s cheeks covered in a delicate blush for the slip he’d just made.

“You are well informed on Tadfield’s latest news, dear Angelica,” Mrs Tracy said, her voice full of barely contained mirth.

“Ehm, well, my brother… Aziraphale… he writes to me quite often. Terrible gossip, that one, I can tell you. I am almost happy he couldn’t be here tonight, or he would have given away all of my secrets within five minutes.”

Anathema smiled fondly. The angel was a half-decent liar when he put his mind to it. Aziraphale was handsome when he presented as a man, but this corporation suited him too: the powder blue frock brought out his eyes, and those loose curls, although old-fashioned in style, complemented his soft features quite well.

Mrs Tracy winked. “Then I’ll be sure to ask him once he comes back, love, so I’ll have some leverage over you. But yes, his report is spot on… I had twelve proposals in total, only this week.”

“The poor man is madly in love”, said Anathema.

“Oh, love has nothing to do with this, I assure you. I would call it loneliness, but the manner of the proposals really puts me off from feeling any compassion for him. He usually rattles off a long list of sensible reasons why a woman in my _most delicate situation_ would need the protection of a well-reputed gentleman like himself.”

Aziraphale and Anathema rolled their eyes almost simultaneously.

“I hope you gave him the answer he deserves, dear Marjorie,” said the angel.

“It grieves me to say,” the woman’s eyes twinkled, “that last time he started with a speech as such, a porcelain vase _accidentally_ fell on his toe.”

Both Anathema and Aziraphale looked at their friend with wide eyes. Mrs Tracy schooled her face into the picture of innocence.

“I am so clumsy, my girls, it is a fact well known! Anyone who claims my hand in marriage should consider this beforehand.”

“Clumsy, of course,” grinned Anathema. “We all know that very well.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips and added:

“What happened to the vase? Did it survive the ordeal?”

“Alas, no. Cracked beyond repair, but its sacrifice will never be forgotten.”

The mental image of the strict little man rendered surprised and outraged by the incident was enough to get a laugh out of Anathema, and that cheerful note became quite suddenly the only noise in the room. Anathema’s throat dried up as soon as she realised how thick the silence around them was. She felt like drinking, but her glass had somehow disappeared.

The orchestra had stopped playing; the strings of the violins lay as still as the feet of the dancers. Everybody looked at the entrance, holding their breath.

Aziraphale squeezed Anathema’s arm, his steely eyes fixed on the figures that had appeared on the doorway.

Black tailcoat, charcoal waistcoat, stockings and shoes perfectly matched; Mr Crowley stood out among the pastel colours of the ladies and the muted hues of the gentlemen like a raven hiding among a flock of doves. By his side, he had two ladies with sharp faces, clad in boisterously frilled gowns. The sophistication of the ensemble was such that the duo looked as if their attires had been patched together from clashing styles, incompatible fabrics and completely different eras. The tallest lady had a pair of sunken black eyes and hair more milky than blond: she wore grey like a lamp left to gather dust. The other one wore a grimace barely contained by the stiff lines of her jaw; in the candlelight, her dress gave iridescent glints.

If Anathema still had her pendant, no doubt it would have become incandescent in their presence.

“Hastur and Ligur,” said Aziraphale. Mrs Tracy raised one eyebrow.

“Do you know the ladies, Angelica?”

“I...” The Principality wrinkled his nose. “I had the pleasure, yes.”

“Was it during the Season, perhaps?”

“Precisely.”

In Aziraphale’s gaze Anathema saw the blazing fire of another kind of Season; a storm of sulphur and iron that rose from Underneath to threaten the Heavens. She remembered the flames that had engulfed her godfather’s umbrella, and for the first time she realised that her sweet ward had been assigned to the Eastern Gate for a very specific reason.

Who knew how many battlefields scarred his heart.

At some stage during his long life, Aziraphale must have decided that showing strength was less important than showing kindness. Anathema was most grateful for that, and she prayed for that kindness to stay. For that warrior not to have reason to awake. For the seals to hold and keep her world in its precarious balance.

Behind the demonic trio, two other figures appeared. Anathema recognised them in a heartbeat. One was young Warlock, wearing a suit similar to Crowley’s and with a haircut that placed him neither among the children nor among the adults. The other one was, quite naturally, the man all Tadfield was waiting for.

Pulsifer didn’t wear glasses that evening. Necessity or compulsion? The pair she saw him wearing before seemed to have been quite thoroughly destroyed the day of their collision, but no doubt the demonic equivalent of a miracle could easily restore it. Maybe the lack of corrective lenses had been the man’s choice.

Gabriel didn’t give her any.

The idea that the demon Crowley could have imposed a similar veto on Pulsifer stung Anathema with an unwanted dose of sympathy. Oh, Hellfire and Damnation! Wouldn’t it have been so much easier if the wretched man had done something, _anything,_ to make her hate him?

The Archangels, much like Aziraphale, stood like statues at the demon’s arrival. The whole room was protected by seals traced in cabbalistic symbols so that no side could attack the other; nevertheless, the animosity was evident and vibrant.

Before Uriel could snatch a sword from the wall or Sandalphon decided to bite one of the Fallen’s throat, destroying Gabriel’s poor nerves as he tried to exert the art of diplomacy between the two groups, a very human and completely unaware R.P.Tyler took it on himself to welcome the new arrivals, with all the pomp of a herald at the Prince Regent’s Court.

“Mr Pulsifer”, said the ageing gentleman, with a campy bow, “Allow me the pleasure to welcome you to our small gathering.”

“Mr Tyler, I am happy to see you again. It’s a pleasure to be here. There’s nothing I like more than a good country dance.”

 _Apart from building killing machines,_ thought Anathema, warily.

As the music started again, the newcomers let R.P. Tyler lead them through an accurate and petulant round of introductions. Mrs Tracy opened her fan and hid a conspiratorial smile behind it.

“What do we know about the ladies? Are they a danger to our Anathema’s chances?”

Aziraphale let out a bitter cackle. “Not even remotely.”

“Pulsifer’s own flesh and blood, then.”

“Sisters,” the angel improvised, “Completely removed from the competition.”

“What about the boy?”

“A nephew, maybe,” said Anathema, finding her words again. “Isn’t it strange that they brought him to the ball? He looks far too young for an event like this.”

Mrs Tracy fanned herself slowly. “What can you tell me about the gentleman in black? He’s _decidedly_ attractive, that’s for sure.”

Anathema turned to look at Aziraphale. Was that rage colouring his cheeks? It must have been.

“His name is Crowley, and he’s a rascal of the worst kind. Please, Marjorie, avoid him at all costs. The man brings nothing but trouble.”

“Oh! Angelica, dear, you speak like a woman who has first-hand experience of such trouble.”

The suggestive tone was so evident that Anathema barely stifled a laugh. If only the woman knew what she was implying! Angel, demon: they would probably explode. 

Aziraphale didn’t understand the insinuation, and for Mrs Tracy’s delight he replied:

“Oh, yes. You can bet on that.”

***

It is all under control, of course.

I’ve double-checked the angelic seals thrice before the ball commenced. The fact that now Gabriel is joining our group is comforting enough, as it makes me feel less exposed. Anathema and I are certainly not alone against the demons in here. Here’s Uriel, amiably clicking their fingers to _suggest_ to dear Marjorie it might be time to go and have some refreshments: our friend’s gaze is completely blank when she complies. I don’t like to mess with her mind, but it is for her safety. I don’t want her anywhere near those foul creatures.

Sandalphon comes to stand next to me with the same grin he had as we were counting the bodies after the Flood.

“Look at the filthy rats”, he murmurs. “Might add a few pair of black wings to my walls soon.”

I scoff. “None of that, please. Not tonight.”

He smiles at me. His clenched teeth look like lines of soldiers in battle formation. I can’t blame him: I, too, feel my blood singing for the fight. A primal part of me is burning to clash against the Fallen once again. Despite the temporary truce we have negotiated, it might as well happen. I could grab the nearest poker and set fire to it, see where we go from there.

Instead, I smile and bow as the Pulsifer boy and his group approach, with Mr Tyler as their chaperon.

The silly man is completely unaware of the fact he’s standing between two platoons with rifles pointed at one another.

“Please let me introduce Mr Gabriel Fell, Mr Sandalphon Fell, Professor Uriel Fell and of course the lovely Miss Angelica Fell with her niece, Miss Anathema Bennet-Fell. They are all relations of Sir Michael, whom you’ve met a moment ago.”

Crowley produces a grin at that, and says: “Only a moment ago, really? It feels like we’ve known these people since the dawn of time.”

I swear that big mouth of his will get him into serious trouble one of these days. Most humans, thank God, aren’t the literal sort.

Gabriel steps in, taking charge in Michael’s absence. She is watching at the other side of the room: her job at this moment is to keep all of our seals in place.

“Mr Pulsifer,” says the tall Archangel, “it is an honour to meet you.”

“Likewise, Mr Fell,” says the boy, with a little nervous smile. “Please, let me introduce the rest of my party. My aunts, Lady Hastur and Miss Ligur.”

The two try and fail to curtsey in their frankly bizarre dresses; delight glimmers in Crowley’s eyes.

“This is my step-brother,” Pulsifer continues, “Master Warlock.”

The boy, although looking quite unimpressed with the Host, graces us with a decent bow.

“And, of course, my tutor, Mr Anthony J. Crowley.”

_Anthony?_

Why that, of all names?

My mind runs back to Rome, one of the many civil wars: my whispers in his ear eventually lead Octavian to sit on a throne as the first Emperor. I always knew somebody else was guiding Mark Anthony on the coasts of Egypt. A figure in a black toga I could only see from afar, as we were standing on the deck of the warships sieging Alexandria.

By the same logic, I should have called myself Augustus.

Well, I might, after all.

It’s the weight of Anathema’s hand on the curve of my elbow that brings me back to the present time.

We all agreed on what is the desired outcome for the evening, yet the boy seems hesitant. I study my girl’s expression and find it unblinking.

“I, well…” Pulsifer gives a distinctive look on his shoulder, to meet his tutor’s gaze beyond the dark glasses. Crowley gives a curt nod, and Pulsifer clears his voice.

He looks like he has been rehearsing the sentence for quite some time, and to the boy’s credit it flows out of his mouth with some elegance.

“If Miss Bennet-Fell is not otherwise engaged, may I be so bold as to claim the next two dances?”

Anathema curtseys as graciously as ever.

“It will be my pleasure, Mr Pulsifer.”

And like that, her hand leaves the nook of my elbow and takes the young man’s, as they leave together towards the dance floor.

R.P. Tyler comments something about how young people are all about dancing nowadays, when Uriel’s hand waves at him. Quite suddenly, the old silly man feels the need to go and get some refreshment himself.

I’m left alone on the edge of a battlefield, my siblings behind me, the enemy staring right into my face.

Ligur looks repulsed. Hastur barely hides a sneer.

Crowley is strangely quiet. Strangely still.

And in the silence before the storm, young Warlock pulls a rather voluminous book from behind his back.

“Excuse me. If you’re not grabbing each other by the neck yet, I’ll go and read a few pages. I’ll be sitting down there. Please, call me when the bloodbath starts: I’d hate to miss it.”

I admit I try to steal a glance at the cover to see what book a protégé of Hell could be reading. But briefly. I cannot forget I’m on duty, now.

“Good job on your seals,” says Hastur, looking at Gabriel. “Can smell the stench of your grace from the house.”

The Archangel replies with a beatific smile.

“Good job on yours. Just an observation though: next time I would really appreciate if you could avoid the maggots. We had to work a miracle and a half for the humans not to notice them.

Hastur smiles slowly, like a cat eyeing its prey. “My trademark, wank wings. Glad it gave you cause for additional grief.”

Gabriel’s grin isn’t less terrifying. “Oh, if you call _that_ grief, maybe I should help you understand the real meaning of the word.”

“Here’s an idea for you all,” Crowley jumps in the conversation, with strained cheerfulness. “Why don’t you help yourself to some wine, maybe a dance or two…”

“Angels don’t _dance,”_ Sandalphon says slowly, and I swear I can hear his knuckles crack over the music.

Crowley shrugs. “Pity, that. ‘s fun, is all. But the wine…”

“Gross matter,” Uriel’s nose curls in disgust, “We don’t sully our celestial bodies with that.”

“Well, you lot must be fun at parties.”

“We _are_ at a party”, says Sandalphon, showing great pride at the cleverness of his own remark. Crowley snorts. I can barely blame him, this time.

“My point is,” the demon in black tries again, “relax a little, let the kids get to know each other. We are working together, yes? Cancelling each other out for tonight. A sort of agreement, if you like.”

At that, Ligur turns towards Crowley and snarls. “We agreed to _nothing._ We’ll do what we have to do, for as long as it takes for Armageddon to start. Then, the real fight will begin.”

Crowley swallows and mumbles: “Well, yeah, that goes without saying, ‘f course.”

As angels and demons scatter around the room, frequently throwing daggers at each other with their eyes, I find I am suddenly alone. Only one fiend left in front of me. The hall swims in music and dances; the deadly atmosphere has slowly dissipated.

For a moment, I am just a female-presenting being, standing in front of a very handsome male-presenting creature, waiting for…

What, an invitation to dance? Ridiculous. What am I even thinking?

Crowley’s smile is more mischievous now. More genuine than it was a minute ago.

“Never knew you’d be willing to change your shape, _angel._ ”

“Oh? I beg your pardon. I wasn’t sure you were talking to me.”

“Do I ever call anyone else _angel?”_

 _“_ I am not entirely sure you realised, Crowley, but you are quite literally surrounded by angels here.”

“Nope. Never noticed the others. One of them has been very distracting so far, with the change of corporation and everything.”

“It really takes nothing to catch you off guard, dear boy.”

I infuse all the hostility I can in the last two words, but Crowley’s features soften as I utter them.

“Give yourself some credit _”,_ something twists in my stomach as his voice drops to a husky whisper, “You’ve always been great at thwarting me.”

And with those words, the man bows and walks past me, soon finding another woman to converse with.

I look at the dancers. If I let my sight blur, their auras glow around them, bright against the electric blue of the angelic seals and the flaming red of the demonic ones. They are everywhere: on the walls, on the ceiling, clinging at the windows, dripping from the mantelpiece.

Yet they don’t burn like the sound of that blessed whisper. I still feel its caress on my skin. 

***

Under normal circumstances, Anathema neither loved nor particularly abhorred the act of dancing. That evening, however, each figure of the country-dance was shaping into a chess move. Her steps may have traced a well-known path, but the words she shared with her partner had to be cautiously calculated.

"I'm sorry about your mechanical device," she started, meeting Pulsifer's clear gaze. "Tell me, did you manage to save anything from the wreckage?"

The young man looked down and laughed, embarrassed. "I'm afraid not. I'll have to start over, as I do every time."

“And what exactly would be the purpose of your device? If it is safe for me to ask, of course."

"Why shouldn't it be...", Pulsifer frowned as he walked in a semicircle around the gentleman who had previously stood beside him. He looked at the stranger briefly, understanding dawning on his face. He lowered his voice when he told her: “Oh, sure. Do you perhaps believe I assemble machines for..."

The protégé of Heaven stood, waiting for her turn to move. She was really curious to see how Pulsifer would manage to avoid the word _demonic_ in a gathering so unsuitable to hear it.

"... for the advancement of my tutors' projects," Pulsifer concluded. Good choice of words, she had to concede that.

"Wasn't it?" she asked with feigned levity as she graciously stepped around another dancer.

"Not at all. Simply a gift for my guardian."

Anathema completed the rotatory movement and found she was once again facing her partner.

"Therefore, for the advancement of his plans."

"If avoiding an unfortunate discorporation is your idea of advancing anyone’s plans, then yes, of course, you must be right."

An adamantine note rang in Pulsifer's voice. What a pleasant discovery. So, all it took to bring out a little contrary spirit in the man was to tease? Interesting.

“Does perhaps Mr Crowley require your machine to keep him alive?"

"Horses," the man replied.

"I’m afraid I don’t understand. Do you treat Mr Crowley's horses?"

How easily he let her poke him! Newton Pulsifer wore naivety like a white jacket. How was it possible that such sincerity had been preserved when the young man had been raised by demons?

“Horses are afraid of Mr Crowley,” he explained, “Because of, you know. That _cologne_ he uses. They can smell it from miles away and become jumpy in his presence."

Anathema remembered the blessed pendant charring in her palm. The smile died away.

"Yes, I think I understand what you mean."

“His attempts to ride have been most unfortunate so far. For years now I have been trying to build a mechanical horse for him, so he can move around like a gentleman of his station. Unfortunately, no matter how much I study before I get to work, the machines always seem to fall apart at my touch."

“Why do you insist, then? Isn’t that a sign that the venture is, forgive me if I say this, quite desperate?"

They joined hands, forming a circle with the other dancers. Pulsifer did not possess a powerful grip. On the contrary: his hand just covered Anathema's, so that her fingers could rest comfortably inside his palm. He was barely holding her. She was free to move away at any time.

“I don’t really believe in signs, Miss Bennet-Fell.”

“Is that so?”

“Well. As they say: _the fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars_. I am convinced that if I continue to study and improve myself one day I will succeed, no matter what my supposed destiny has to say on the matter."

Anathema fell silent. 

Did he just casually quote Shakespeare?

The demons must have told him about Anathema's preferences. He had certainly arrived prepared at the meeting, which, given the situation, wasn’t entirely surprising. Still, she was unable to stop the bitterness from clogging her throat. It was just a strategy to win her good opinion. It must have been.

In response to her sudden mutism, Pulsifer's blue eyes darted to each side of the room, touching every single surface except for Anathema's face. For a moment she ardently wished to recall his attention upon herself, if only to stop that maddening movement.

The music stopped. The dancers applauded the musicians. Anathema had already prepared a few polite words to say before taking her leave, but Pulsifer led her towards a corner of the room, next to the fireplace.

"Before we part, Miss Bennet-Fell, I have something for you."

When he handed her a white cotton bundle –on which, she noticed, the initials "NP" were embroidered in navy cotton thread– Anathema gave him a suspicious look.

“Sir, I can’t accept. If you give me a gift on our first meeting, then at the second I will expect a medallion with your portrait, and at the third a ring with a lock of your hair inside."

He smiled. Anathema's impudence seemed to amuse him. Maybe he didn't have enough spirit to respond in kind, but at least her sharp sense of humour wasn’t lost on him.

"It's actually something that was already yours, I am merely returning it."

“Please don't tell me you’re talking about your heart. My purse is too small to carry it around."

"If you don't want it, I ..."

"No," Anathema hurried to say, closing her hand over the white bundle. "Please forgive me. I tend to get carried away with words, but it is only my awkward way of joking. I mean no harm, I assure you."

Suddenly, she realised Mrs Tracy's gaze was on them. It was just a moment; by the time Anathema looked at her, the woman was already amiably refusing yet another proposal from R.P. Tyler. Gabriel, on the contrary, stared at the young couple without a trace of shame. He gave her a feline smile, followed by a dramatic wink.

Repressing the twinge in the stomach, Anathema opened the little cotton bundle.

Her lips parted in surprise.

The silver pendant. The one with the small bell and the angel wings that had been in her father's family for generations. Last time she saw it, in the fields, it was impossible to tell it from any other black pebble. She had despaired to save it.

"You," Anathema gasped. There were so many demons around them, yet the pendant wasn’t changing colour at all. "How ... and why is it still..."

Mr Pulsifer shrugged, a blush creeping on his gentle features.

"I immersed it in holy water to purify it. That's why it doesn't react to my family’s presence tonight."

"Holy... water?"

The angels had told her many times: that was the only thing in existence capable of destroying a demon, erasing its black soul from this world.

And that naïve boy, raised by dukes and counts of Hell, really had...

"Mr Crowley was not thrilled with my idea, of course," Pulsifer hurriedly added, as if for some reason he felt he had to apologise for being less than sensitive towards his guardian. “But I told him it would have been too great a discourtesy not to present you your jewel in its best conditions. You lost it because of me, after all."

“And like that, Mr Crowley was persuaded?”

“He’s not as detached from decorum and etiquette as you may believe. He just likes to be perceived as dangerous and unpredictable, but once the dramatics are over he proves to be quite reasonable a creature.”

Anathema turned the pendant over between her fingers. It had been carefully dried, this was evident: the bell rang crystal clear inside.

Demons couldn’t step on sacred ground, she knew that much – that was partly the reason why Fellbourne was built on the ruins of an ancient church. But someone had to walk to a baptismal font in order to clean the pendant. Maybe, Pulsifer himself did it.

If the man could walk inside a church, he was probably not completely damned.

Not yet, at least.

A flurry of gratitude, curiosity and absolute disbelief left her breathless for a moment. The young man had stood in front of a demon, asking to use holy water for _her_ sake, and had won the argument. She saw something new in this Pulsifer man, an edge that suddenly made the game between them much more interesting.

He could be, after all, a possible ally in her quest for independence.

Pulsifer was already bowing, ready to take leave. Anathema held his hand.

“Mr Pulsifer, do you really believe what you said about fate? That you don't want to bend to it, and prefer to choose for yourself? "

From the distance, she could almost feel Gabriel's smile widen, while Mrs Tracy's gaze softened. It did not matter. All that mattered was searching Pulsifer's blue eyes and finding the spark of rebellion that had since long ignited a fire inside her.

She wasn't sure if she found exactly that; however, she saw understanding and willingness to listen. They would have to do, for now.

When the two young people made their way to the gardens of Tadfield Manor, the archangels and demons exchanged a nod of approval. Everything was following the plan.

Across the room, the Principality was torturing his hands at the sight of Pulsifer and Anathema leaving the party. That was how the night was supposed to go, he knew this much. And yet.

The girl was flying off. Aziraphale could no longer keep her under his wings.

***

The seals are annoyingly well concocted: they prevent me from getting out of the room and follow Anathema and Pulsifer. I have to trust my girl. She is strong, resourceful. The boy seems innocuous enough: and still, I worry. That’s my role in her life, after all.

A couple of gentlemen gallantly try to persuade me to join the merry dance. I refuse, obviously. Not while I’m on duty, thank you very much. Stay away from the likes of me, humans: keep enjoying yourself, have a lovely time, kick those heels and hold hands and smile. If you only knew how many charms you are stepping on; if you could see what lines of power contend your souls tonight. Tread carefully, dear, silly humans. Angels and demons circle around the room, smiling like predators at each other. When bears fight for dominance, the ants under their paws had better scatter or let themselves be crushed.

The conflicting charms, invisible to the human eye, are still quite audible. If you quitted at once all the dancing and chatting you, too, could hear them hum – like a constant string vibrating under the orchestra. There’s no amount of noise that can distract an Angel or a Fallen one from this sound. It’s our reminder. This could all explode in one devastating deflagration. We could inadvertently bring on Armageddon before time.

After all the millennia we spent here, nurturing these amazing creatures, experiencing the world through their wondrous inventions. After all the love we poured in Her most cherished creation. All gone. And for what? Just the whim of a handful of immortals with a millenary grudge to set.

A terrible, terrible affair. And there is so little I can do about it, right now.

How I detest sitting here, powerless in the face of what is to come. If I had at least one of my books to keep me company as I pretend not to agonise in this never-ending suspense.

Oh, but there is someone with a book, here.

Crowley’s younger protégé, Master Warlock. He’s sitting not too far from me, slouching on a chair like a perfect little image of his devilish tutor. Nurture definitely prevailing over nature, in this particular specimen.

Unless Crowley had him with a human, and I never knew about it.

I can’t really discard the hypothesis now, can I? Demons are surely encouraged to practice any kind of debauchery. It’s their job.

I move with all the nonchalance that wearing a new corporation allows me. The boy is sitting on the last free chair in the room, which, of course, is not really a bother to me. With an imperceptible click of my fingers, I manifest another identical chair in the exact moment I’m sitting on it.

“That would appear to be an engrossing read,” I say, to break the ice. I have yet to meet a bookworm pleased to be interrupted in their reading; yet, once the initial irritation is gone, this particular sort of people tends to recognise their own. There is an exquisite thrill in gushing about a well-loved novel with a fellow connoisseur. 

The boy barely lifts his eyebrows as he flicks a page. “Uhm. ‘s fine.”

My, my. He even _sounds_ like Crowley.

“May I ask what you are reading, master Warlock?”

“Words.”

I can’t help but smile. “I believe you forgot two.”

“What?”

“The proper quote would be _words, words, words.”_

“I wasn’t trying to quote anything.”

Alright. The boy makes for a tough audience, it would appear.

“Forgive me. I tend to quote and misquote Hamlet when I can; I hold some affection for the play. The particular bind of the volume you’re holding lead me to believe you were currently perusing a first edition of Sir Thomas Hamner’s _Shakespear’s Works,_ otherwise known as the Oxford Edition. The volume would appear to be n.2, which contains, among other tragedies, the aforementioned Danish one. Judging by where the spine shows its cracks, I deduced this book might have been opened rather frequently at the location where Hamlet would be. I should know, being a proud possessor of the same edition.”

Exploiting all the grace of my current hairstyle, I tilt my head just enough to frame a smile with a curtain of curls.

“Of course, I might be wrong.”

Unexpectedly, the boy’s frown breaks into a grin.

“You are a bit of a bastard for an angel, did you know that?”

Be it by blood or education, surely this disregard for common etiquette was the fruit of Crowley’s imprint.

I shouldn’t be pleased by the evident insult at my holy qualities; and yet, I find I rather am. It reminds me of the times Anathema teases me with the same uncivil moniker.

“I believe I am acquainted with the fact, yes.”

The dam is broken, and soon it turns out the boy has plenty to say on the matter of Hamlet. Not only is Warlock currently reading the play, but he’s apparently drawn to it by the gore and darkness and general gloom of the atmospheres. Gloom, he keenly informs me, is the force that drives human lives to their inevitable downfall, and though in Shakespeare the mechanisms aren’t as neat and irreversible as they appear to be in the Greek tragedy, there is still something to say for the sense of inaction of the main character that leads to a hopeless ending for everyone.

I believe I might have just adapted the language a bit in my account, but I report the sentiment to a T.

Which leads me to formulate two assumptions on young Master Warlock.

Assumption number one: he is, in fact, thoroughly well-read for an eleven-year-old boy.

Assumption number two: it is simply my duty to intervene before Crowley’s education leads him into the clutches of darkness forever.

As our discussion reverts to the self-fulfilling prophecy in the Scottish Play, I take advantage of a particularly clever remark of his to put a hand on Warlock’s shoulder. It is brief: a contact which, I am sure, the boy won’t even notice. The faint ringing of silver bells that accompanies my miracles is barely noticeable, after all.

A quick blessing won’t be enough to save Warlock’s mind and soul, of course.

I have to find an excuse to see the boy more often and impart more Grace on him. My influence, I am sure, could help direct his life towards the light.

It doesn’t take me much to persuade Warlock to read out loud the scene of the fishmonger, promising I’ll be the Polonius to his Hamlet: we are playing our parts rather well, if I may say so - when I intercept a conversation nearby.

It’s Crowley, and he’s talking to our Marjorie Tracy.

Who the Dickens introduced them? And what could they possibly be talking about! I can’t afford to make a scene such as the one at the birch grove a few days ago: we’re dancing on a tightrope, tonight. But surely I can listen, to make sure that my dear, oblivious friend is in no imminent danger.

“That was excellent, my dear boy!” I say to Warlock, a tad too cheerfully. “Would you perhaps indulge this old woman…”

“You’re not really a woman, though, are you?”

I have to gently poke him with my fan at that. I simply have to. “Shush, you. I believe I am wearing my mask rather well. Actually, I was about to ask you to read _the_ monologue for me, but if you’re not interested…”

Warlock shrugs, his eyes going to the page to hide a quick flicker of excitement.

“Ah, that one, of course. You’re so predictable, _angel._ ”

“It’s _madam angel_ for you, darling boy.”

At this, Warlock grins again, before he starts declaiming the lines that most male actors, and secretly several female ones too, would kill to perform.

And as he does, I can freely eavesdrop on Crowley and Mrs Tracy’s conversation.

“And do you enjoy dancing yourself, Mr Crowley?” she is asking, with the carefully crafted demureness that she is so good at displaying.

“Not if I can avoid it, no.”

Rascal! Answering like that to a perfectly lovely older woman. Yet Mrs Tracy seems to find the turn of phrase quite amusing.

“From here I can see a dear friend of mine who is not taking part in the dances either, much to my chagrin. She swears she knows you. Miss Angelica Fell?”

Crowley’s voice lowers to a grumble. “Name rings a bell, yeah.”

“She is the aunt of young Miss Anathema, a particular friend of mine. Angelica is such an adorable lady, and an animated dancer too! But I’m afraid the gentlemen tonight must be blind to her undisputable charms. I dare say, she needs a knight in shining armour to save her from boredom.” 

“Sorry, I left my harness at home. It’s a rusty thing, haven’t used it since the Arthurian times.”

As Warlock’s voice declaims _ay, there’s the rub,_ I hold back a scoff.

I remember said harbinger. Crowley was known as the Black Knight, back then. I cannot say much for the helmet, but the ensemble looked rather fetching.

From a practical point of view. Obviously. Good metal, solid enough.

“Would you at least consider talking to the lady I mentioned? It would be rather impolite not to say hello. I heard you've known each other for some time.”

“I would prefer not to.”

“Oh, I understand. You must have broken her heart, then.”

“No way.” There’s an uncharacteristic seriousness in Crowley’s voice. “I don’t go around messing with hearts. Not my style, that.”

“So you have no reason to refuse! One dance, Mr Crowley, and whatever passed between you two will be long forgotten.”

God bless her, Marjorie really can press a point. She’s probably a bit too pleased with whatever is going on with Anathema and young Pulsifer: drunk on one matchmaking success, in which by the way she has _no_ part whatsoever, she now can’t wait to chase for another.

If she only knew how wrong her conjectures are! 

The history of my rivalry with the demon Crowley is not something that can be forgotten with a dance.

The fiend, thank Goodness, seems to agree with me.

“As I said, I don’t dance.”

“And you are telling me our Angelica’s beauty doesn’t intrigue you at all?”

“She is tolerable, I suppose, but she is not handsome enough to tempt me.”

Crowley’s voice is frost and spike, completely flat and indifferent.

Humans often say: _not until Hell freezes over,_ meaning: never, at all. They don’t know the deepest part of Hell is, in fact, made of ice. They don’t know some demons wield coldness like a knife.

Crowley’s tone mellows again.

“I would have danced with you instead, but I think Mr Tyler might have my head on a silver plate if I dared. Better not risk it.”

I hear Marjorie scold him, half in jest half in earnest, presumably defending my honour against such an ungentlemanly judgement and protesting about R.P. Tyler’s feelings for her. I am not sure, though. I can’t hear another word after that.

Good Lord, I’ve always thought of my lungs as a pretty inner decoration for my vessel. Now that I find them depleted of all air I have to recognise their usefulness.

Crowley’s words managed to kick me right in the sternum, without even being directed at me.

I clutch the fan until I hear the sticks creak.

_Not handsome enough to tempt him?_

The boor. The absolute churl!

 _“And thus the native hue of resolution,_ ” Warlock keeps reciting in dark, exaggerated tones, “ _Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought…_ ”

Oh, no: my hue of resolution isn’t fading at all. I know exactly what to do next.

I will show him. I will show Crowley that I am not someone to publicly mock like that.

He may think what he likes about my appearance, but I am an Angel of the Lord. A Principality. The Guardian of the Eastern Gate.

There is such a thing in this world as a reversed temptation. It’s the path that leads to redemption _,_ and I will pave it for this poor boy sitting by my side.

I am not sure if the demonic influences can be destroyed in Pulsifer, who is older and probably beyond saving at this point: but Master Warlock can still come to the light.

And I will see that he does.

  
  


[1] A tool used in Ancient Rome to curl ladies’ hair in those fashionable ringlets so often portrayed in statues. The angel didn’t know back then that his arch-nemesis, the demon Crowley, was in possession of a full collection of Roman toiletries, all perfectly preserved. The demon had a fondness for the era that bordered on plain nostalgia: some claim he kept his pearls nestled in the shell of real oysters - leftovers, apparently, of a dinner at Petronius’s short-lived restaurant. Having never been fortunate enough to visit the aforementioned demon’s chambers, this humble writer can neither confirm nor dispel the rumour. 

[2] From sonnet 58; because in this particular recount of his adventures a certain Principality is peculiarly obsessed with the Bard, for no other reason than the author might be projecting her own nerdish infatuation on the poor, unsuspecting character.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is. 
> 
> Crowley has pronounced the fatal words. What the Heaven was he thinking? 
> 
> We may get to hear it from the demon himself in the next chapter. I have to say I am far more comfortable in Aziraphale's shoes, but there is a quote from the P&P book and the 1995 mini-series that I really want to fit in, and the only way to do it is from Crowley's perspective. So what I'm saying is... there might be a scene from our demon's point of view next time. Provided I don't scrap it, destroy the laptop in despair and throw it all out of the window before I find the courage to post it XD
> 
> What else to expect from Chapter 4?
> 
> Anathema and Newt might put a plan together. Hastur will be Hastur. Warlock will be blessed multiple times, with unpredictable consequences. A girl will be sent to Turpinfield under the rain without a carriage. A very protective Principality might pop out some extra eye. AND... we might meet the one and only machine Newt managed to put successfully together - with a little demonic help from his friends.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter - surely I had lots of fun writing it ^^


	5. Fine Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's blessings on Warlock have unpredictable effects. As we explore Crowley's point of view, we learn there was a time when a certain angel and demon have been friends, after all. What happened in Alexandria, fourteen centuries ago?  
> We also meet Dog, an automaton put together with all of Newt's efforts and a little demonic miracle of Crowley's own, and Merriman, a stoic butler with a mysterious past.  
> Gabriel will finally push Aziraphale's buttons. A few extra eyes will appear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder implied; mention of nightmares, night terrors, and meltdowns. Past child neglect implied (which is why I changed the rating to M)
> 
> My apologies for the long hiatus. May has been a tough month for my mental health, and once things calmed down a little it took me weeks to regain some sort of emotional balance. But I haven't been entirely idle, I promise! Apart from working on the second draft of my original novel, I've drafted a classic The Night at Crowley's Apartment one-shot and started plotting a relatively short Lie to Me/Good Omens Fusion AU (who else loved that series? As a lifelong Tim Roth fan, I am still sad about the way the show ended. I was so fond of Cal and Gillian!). And I have made plans for P&O, of course.
> 
> If you read this far, thank you for not giving up on this story ♥
> 
> No matter how many ideas are brimming in my mind, Pride and Omens will always be my main project until its completion - 19 chapters are a reasonable estimate for the amount of plot I'd like to cover, but the number could vary as I tend to take detours and adjust the trajectory as the story progresses (it kind of needs to unfold in my mind step by step, if that makes sense? I keep discovering new details that I never seem to be able to plan beforehand, and a few of them turn out to be game-changers for the development of the story.) The broad planning for P&O seems quite solid so far, fingers crossed. I hope to put the rest of the summer holidays to good use and produce at least a few chapters at a more decent speed! But whatever happens, however long it might take, I promise that this story will be completed.
> 
> As always, a huge thank you to my amazing beta @lestelle ♥♥ Without her invaluable suggestions I would never find the confidence to show my work. 
> 
> I leave you with Crowley's POV: let me tell you, that was a rollercoaster. He's great fun to write, but I'm so much more comfortable in the angel's shoes XD I hope you'll like the change. I have opted for the first person for Crowley and a close third for Aziraphale, as I personally tend to get confused when I find two first-person narrators in the same chapter. This solution seemed more practical somehow!  
> Also, there's a little plot twist ahead...  
> If you like, let me know what you think.

**Chapter 4**

**Fine Eyes**

“ _She is tolerable, I suppose, but she's not handsome enough to tempt me.”_

Why did I say that? Why the actual _fuck_?

Did Aziraphale hear me? He wasn’t sitting that close. Is hearing any better in angels than it is in humans? Can’t remember. Must be, though, with all that listening to prayers and stuff.

You know what, screw all that: I _hope_ Mr Holier-Than-Thou heard me. Serves him right, too. Who does he think he is, strutting in the room with his nose turned up like he owns the place, looking gorgeous in a new body all wrapped up in light blue brocade, tossing those impossibly soft curls all around the place? Ridiculous. Old fashioned. Of course he stood out. Everybody in the room was looking at him. You know what, I think my put down was an act of duty at that point. Not even for myself, but for the poor human buggers around us. They would have drowned in angelic ego otherwise.

I was half expecting a powdered wig from him, or something. But who needs one of those when their natural hair is made out of cloud-stuff, right?

Not that I ever stop thinking about Aziraphale’s hair, or how it would feel under my fingers.

I can tell he was pissed off, big time. Yes, yes, he kept smiling at everybody and making polite conversation, but that doesn’t fool me. When Aziraphale gets angry, his eyes are a storm at sea. His chest does that thing, I mean – it swells with pride, makes him look taller. Chin up, nose upturned. And that brocade dress really hugged him in all the right places.

Fuck.

Wrong train of thoughts.

Now I can’t stop thinking about that pointy bodice and the view it gave. I think I never saw so much of Aziraphale’s skin, like, ever. Not even in Rome.

Here’s a thought. Next time I discorporate, can I please come back on Earth as silk? Let me wrap myself around that beautiful, beautiful work of art that is the angel’s body; I’d be happy to rub against a couple of good spots as I keep him warm.

Pity he’d be repulsed by the very idea.

Look, some time ago Aziraphale made himself quite clear on where we stand, I haven’t forgotten a single word. Once we’d almost been something different from hereditary enemies, something closer and warmer. A place for each other to catch a breath from this fucking job, which, if you ask me, became a mess since other supernatural shadows and lights started walking on Earth. It should have been only the two of us, here on Earth. Lone agents forced to cooperate and compromise. That would have been another Eden.

And now we’re back dancing on the knife-edge, looking on our shoulders, avoiding contact as if glances were arrows and words were, I don’t know.Rifle shots. Spear wounds. What were they using again in Alexandria, when the _parabolani_ took down the statues of the Egyptian gods? Was it before gunpowder? I’ve lost count of the weapons over the centuries: cruelty is always up to speed with the times. On the flip side, the screams of people dying sound the same since Abel and Cain. Turns out pain isn’t fashionable, not even a little. It hasn’t changed face since the Beginning.

Enough now Crowley, you daft hellion.

The Serapeum is no more than a mound of ruins and ashes now, and I have enough on my plate as it is. Newt is about to get hitched with the heavenspawn-girl, and there’s this Prophecy the angels might or might not be hiding from us. Hastur is ravenous, Beelzebub is nagging me more than usual, Ligur gives me the creeps when his eyes keep changing colour around humans – I mean, I have a certain know-how when it comes to hide weird pupils, but does the dummy listen to me? Heaven no. Let’s keep wasting demonic miracles to redirect the mortals’ attention, that’s so much more convenient.

And then there’s Warlock.

The boy worries me. He’s had another nightmare two days ago, woke up screeching like anything, and I don’t know what to do for that anymore. I tried everything saved maybe going into his mind – but he’s too young, stuff is still growing and connecting in there, and I don’t want to mess things up. No matter how many curses I pile up on the perpetrator, this doesn’t help Warlock forget.

So yeah, I have plenty of things to take care of. Serious things. Things that _matter._

So why the heaven did I toss and turn on the ceiling for the whole night, kicking the crystal pendants of the chandelier as I kept thinking again and again about the stupid ball? As if the post-mortem could help.

I don’t need to sleep, technically. But it’s a habit, and my body now kind of expects it. The fucker acts up when it doesn’t get its eight hours: defective, that’s what it is. You know, this vessel’s lucky it’s sexy enough that I don’t really want to petition for a new one, but it’s a real piece of work, take my word on that. High-mantainance, these bodies are.

This morning I had three cups of the strongest coffee that Merriman has ever made, and I’m still yawning as I read Beelzebub’s dispatches for the third time. Written words are always slow to reach my brain, but these instructions in particular have a few “zzzz” too many. This Prince of Hell sure doesn’t believe in human spelling.

When Warlock enters the drawing-room, he struts in to take a piece of bread from the table and stuffs it in his mouth without even sitting.

“Where’s everyone this morning?” he munches around the crust.

There’s a bit of colour on his cheeks; the hint of a smile dances on his mouth. Someone slept well. That’s nice, for a change.

“Ligur and Hastur have,” _fucked off back to Hell, I hope,_ “taken a day off. Newt went out early, he went to town to get flowers.”

“For his _ladylove?_ ”

“No, for Dog. Of course they’re for the girl, who else?”

“Did you remind him we are in the middle of autumn?”

“Yep.”

“What kind of flowers does he think he can get in this season? Cyclamens1? Ugh, so depressing.”

I flip the page of the report. A particular line of _zzzz_ has spilled over the back of the sheet.

“Don’t know… I heard there is a good florist in Tadfield, they have lilacs and daffodils.”

“ _What?_ In September? _”_

“Good soil, great greenhouses. ‘S like spring’s never over.”

The boy grins.

“You are a sap, Crowley.”

I put down the report and let the sunglasses slid to the tip of my nose.

“And you should shut that trap and do productive stuff. Like, invent a steam-powered guillotine, or something.”

“What for? Newt’s machines are going to make more victims than any contraption I could think of.”

“Yes, but by _accident_. It’s not the same.”

Warlock shrugs and walks to the couch, where he has left a couple of books tucked between the cushions. Merriman tends to miss them when he tidies up the room, but I don’t really mind. Warlock is calmer when he can see his books around, it must have something to do with the smell of the pages. I got the feeling he used to hide in the library, in his _previous situation._ Those mouldy tree corpses bound in leather are probably the only form of comfort he has ever known before Hell assigned me to play nursery with him.

He looks fine, today. Seems to be in great shape, actually.

Hold on a second. His hair. Is it _shinier_?

“Oi, little beast. Come here a second, will you?”

He puffs, pawing the couch to find his lost book. “What _now_?”

Sometimes I wonder what kind of jerk has raised such a rude monkey. Then I remember: that would be me.

I leave the table and walk straight to him, grab him by the collar. He hisses. Looks like a kitten trying to be a tiger, really.

“Crowley, come on! I am not five anymore.”

“You smell funny. Have you skipped your bath this morning?”

“They say _cleanliness is next to godliness._ So yes, I have, because you want me to stay far away from the holy stuff.”

It’s something else though. A whiff all around him, like a cloud of incense.

Must have been the angels strutting around the place last night. The room was reeking of ethereal power.

I ring the bell, and our faithful butler shows up in no time. He sports impeccably pressed clothes and well-groomed side-buns; he doesn’t look too bad in the dark red livery I gave him. A white wig, curls and all, covers his receding hair.

“Yes, sir? What can I do for you?”

“Merriman, please take the boy and give him a good scrub, will you?”

“Of course. As Mr Crowley wishes.”

Warlock rolls his eyes as he goes, but the thought of not following Merriman doesn’t cross his mind for a second. Good choice, kid. I might have raised a surly beast who has no respect for authority, but at least he has great survival instincts.

I can’t really say it out loud, professional pride you see, but I probably would think twice before disobeying Merriman, too. The man has the sternest face I have ever seen, and I have met the likes of Cicero – bloody heaven, that one always looked as if he chewed on lemons for breakfast. Still, not even he can hold a candle to our unflappable butler.

Who also has a wild side, because I’d never hire anyone I found boring. But that’s a secret between Merriman and yours truly. A deal with the devil is always confidential.

So, back to Beez’s dispatches. Plans to follow the protocol, a request for a full report on last night’s ball, and a list of other social events the betrothed are required to attend before we can put out the bans and clamp the ball and chain around their ankles. I wonder how the whole church business will work. It should worry me more than it does: all I can think about is how great it will feel to watch Hastur hop like a frog down the aisle.

On our schedule there are three dinners and another ball, all in less than a week. Fan-fucking-tastic. I _really_ can’t wait for the angel to smite me in retaliation for what I said last time we met.

***

Another dinner party, another show.

It’s almost the end of the frigging busy week, and thank Satan for that, because people here are so dull I could yawn myself into discorporation. The clock just chimed half-past nine: another half hour, then I’ll sneak out with an excuse. I promised Warlock I’d be back before his bedtime.

At first he didn’t understand why he couldn’t come, tonight. I couldn’t really tell him “ _hey, you know your new mate, the angel? I have to discuss something about you with him and I really want you out of ear-shot for that”._

As any parent worth their salt, I resorted to the good old _because I say so._

Which resulted in a spectacular meltdown. Let’s just say he trashed the place, broke a few vases and a Bohemian glass chandelier that I kind of liked (reminded me of the time I helped good old Hanuš repairing the astronomical clock in Prague). Well, so long to all that, at least the boy got out without a scratch. In the end I had to restrain him in my arms, and yes, I won’t pretend every shout and kick wasn’t a knife to the gut – but eventually, his rage calmed down, and so did the sobbing. He asked me to show him the demonic seals that will protect him when I’m not there. I did. He felt better after that.

No need to worry, really. My seals are strong. In the unlikely scenario someone stronger comes along and breaks them, Merriman is well-armed and trained. Just in case, I turned Dog’s settings to Aggressive: better safe than sorry. I’ll be home as soon as I manage to get hold of the angel; and I would have already, if I’d seen any sign of him around the place.

Fuck. I really should have checked the guest list beforehand. Or I could have sent him a letter and asked to meet on a neutral ground.

Ah, but then again, he wouldn’t have come if I did. Aziraphale has been giving me the cold shoulder since the night of the Tadfield Hall Ball. He has barely looked at me all week, during the dinner parties. The only one of my group he ever speaks to is Warlock.

The irony. Maybe I should have spared everyone a lot of pain and brought the boy with me. I’d sure feel a lot better if I had him in my line of sight.

At least, my colleagues keep things interesting here: every ten minutes since the moment we came in, I had to stop Ligur or Hastur - or Ligur _and_ Hastur – before they murdered the humans who dared to strike up a conversation. Glaring at the angels seems to be their next best past-time of choice. I kind of held my breath when the Archangel Michael herself sat on the sofa with them: I have to give it to her, she’s good at pretending. If I couldn’t smell the surge of heavenly fire seeping through her skin, I’d think that she and my colleagues were having a polite conversation about boring office matters.

On the bright side, Newt and the heaven-spawn are getting along well. Look at them, chatting up to that lady who pestered me at the Hall the other night – ugh, what’s her name again, can’t remember now. Well, I’m happy for my boy, really. It’s clear as day he’s completely smitten with Anathema already, and she… well, for all I can tell she looks quite smart. Well-spoken, competent, a little feisty – which is brilliant, really, just the kind of partner Newt needs to get out of his shell. She’s pretty as well, but that means nothing in the great scheme of things. If this marriage we’re forcing on them doesn’t go down like a lead balloon, fifty years from now Newt will look at her, and the only thing he’ll recognise from tonight is the glint in her eyes. Lizard-boy better fall for that, or not fall at all.

I tried to pressure him a bit, get to know how the courting’s going. Beelzebub asked for details: I have to give them something. Newt, though, is tight-lipped. He’s not the type to kiss and tell, but if I know him a little I bet he’s not moving this whole romance business as fast as he should. The flowers I miracled for him at the florist were appreciated, at least; the day after Newt had them delivered we received a message of thanks in Gabriel’s swirly handwriting, so there’s that. I might send it to Beelzebub and see how quickly they tell me to fuck off.

Oh-oh, look how she’s laughing now. Go lizard-boy! He must have said something funny. Or something asinine. Eh, that’s a tactic too.

She seems to have a good head on her shoulders. Can’t really wait to dig a bit more into that hag-seed story and see what the angels have told her about her witching side of the family, but I’ll leave out the teasing, for now. Poor old Newt is barely making it through the night without chocking with nervous laughter every time she smiles at him.

Then, as the servers bring me a glass of red – just the thing I needed, keep them coming will you? - I see Aziraphale emerging from the crowd.

So he _was_ here. Where the fuck has he been until now?

He’s presenting male tonight. His smile is stiff. In his hand, covered with a bright white glove, he nurses a glass of dark red wine, like mine. It slushes slow and dense against the cup - reminds me of Homer’s sea, a bit. Or the depth of silence in the Aokigahara forest. Or the stillness of a winter night in Tromsø, when the world is dark and buried under several feet of snow.

Ah, here comes the blasted poetry. This happens every time the angel’s near: there’s this feeling, you know, like a wave of lust but gentler, slower; it surges up from a place barely south of my heart and shoves the mushiest words out of me.

 _Remember Alexandria?_ I want to say, so badly my tongue hurts. _No, not the war between Mark Antony and Octavian. Later, much later than that. A few centuries after the crucifixion, when we’d been left alone for a while. Yes, you remember now! You used to love taking classes at the Serapeum, and I h_ _ung_ _out in the area because, you know, there were so many young men of good breed to tempt into all kinds of sin._

_We used to sit long hours next to Orestes and Synesius, listening to Hypatia as she explained to all of us the perfection of the circle. She was so set on the Ptolemaic system, remember that? Oh, how she believed in that silly model of the universe. We did that thing where you looked at me under your eyelashes then rolled your eyes to the heavens, and I tried not to laugh. The woman was phenomenal, one of the most intelligent philosophers we’d ever met, and yet she failed spectacularly at explaining how the universe worked. Not her fault though. You and I were there, we saw it all happen._

_This one time,_ _I will never forget,_ _you_ _leaned in and_ _whispered in my ear: “Wait until the humans find the first dinosaur’s bone… that_ _i_ _s going to make_ _them_ _go positively_ _mental.” I snorted._ _W_ _e were caught and almost sent out of the classroom as we giggled like kids._

_Good times, those. It was before everything between you and I went pear-shaped. We were friends, for a while. Can we be like that again?_

If there’s something Hypatia understood about the stars, is that you can spend eternity admiring them, but you’d be a fool if you expected them to admire you back.

The angel’s eyes are distant galaxies now, forever out of my reach.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, nodding politely.

“Angel.”

If I use the nickname, it’s only to wind him up. It must have worked, because Aziraphale frowns.

“Young Master Warlock is not with you tonight?”

Ouch. Right to the point.

“Nope. Had some piano practice to catch up with.”

“Oh. He’s a musician, as well as a reader! What an accomplished young man. I congratulate you, Crowley. I was never able to persuade Anathema to sit at the clavichord for more than…”

“Nobody calls it _clavichord_ anymore, angel, keep up. And just so you know,” play the part, pretend to be upset, throw in a pinch of bitterness for good measure, “I couldn’t really bring the boy here, now, could I? He’s reeking of your blessings. Hastur and Ligur would have bitten his head off in the middle of the ballroom if they found out. And mine, too, for good measure.”

“Surely they would have not.”

“Hello, demons? That’s kind of their job.”

The angel looks paler. For fear of having done the wrong thing again? Or maybe this is another shape of his anger, one image I should file away for future reference.

“Well, the boy seemed awfully interested in grim subjects, every single time I talked to him. I just thought he could do with a little light in his life.”

“Oh, yeah? Would you like it if I messed with your girl, there?” I raise my glass towards Anathema. She catches my eye, tries a smile that looks like a grimace, then quickly turns to the other woman in her circle. “She’s been in the light for too long, that must be exhausting. What about I gave her a bit of shade to lean into, uh? A little wicked twist, just to take the pressure off. How would you like that?”

Aziraphale sips his wine. He smiles on the brim of the glass like a well-fed cat basking in the sun.

“Threaten my girl again, and you’ll wish your fellow demons had bitten your head off when they could.”

“Yeah? What could you do to me that’s worse than that?”

“I’ll smite you, my dear. On the spot.”

It’s suddenly hard to swallow.

“Like that, without a warning?”

“Without a single moment’s notice.”

“You wouldn’t dare. Not in front of the humans.”

“Try me. I’d gladly let them watch.”

Fuck. Right. Off.

This shouldn’t, really shouldn’t send a shiver down my spine. Shouldn’t make my skin all tingly and my brain unfocused.

But it does. Oh, it _does._

I need to gulp down some more wine.

“If you are so sure that your way is the only way, maybe we should have a bet.”

Aziraphale’s brow raises, half intrigued, half suspicious. “Oh?”

“You heard me. I influence the boy towards the darkness, you influence him towards the light. Once he’s old enough to make a proper choice, we’ll see what side he’ll pick. What do you think?”

Yessss. I can see it, he’s thinking about it. If Aziraphale accepts meddling with Warlock as a bet against me, I can file the thing away as one of my demonic wiles to defeat an angel on the field. The blessings can keep coming, and I just have to make my superiors believe I’m fighting very hard to undo them.

Which is the opposite of what I’m trying do, because those blessings are the only reason Warlock was able to get some sleep this week. What I really want, is for the angel to keep lavishing those benedictions till the cows come home.

“I think,” Aziraphale takes a deep breath, “that offering to use your ward as a chessboard for our little game is a low blow even for you, Crowley. Good night.”

Alright, I should have seen this coming. But I can’t tell him why I need him to keep blessing the kid. I can’t.

We are on opposite sides. And even if we weren’t, I can’t bare my wounds to him and see them met with shame. I have enough of that of my own.

I gotta think of something else to persuade him. Quick, Crowley, quick.

“As you like. You’ve always been a sore loser.”

He stops. I can see his body tense as he tries not to give in to fury. Oh, here it is, the tempest rising in his green-blue-grey eyes.

“I’ve only lost to your evil ploy once. I won’t have that happen again, ever, in the whole of eternity.”

Is he talking about the apple? I’m not sure, but it feels like he could really smite me now. The only place to hide is behind my cockiest smirk.

“Prove it, then.”

He seems to be on the verge of something else from anger. A kind of deep, deep grieving that makes his cheekbones quiver. I can see it, he’s about to give in. he’ll just need some time to come around.

In the meanwhile, I can only hope the effect of the blessing will last long enough for Warlock to keep resting well.

Aziraphale walks away – wait, did I really get the last word in? I should open a bottle of champagne, things like that happen once in a millennium.

Instead, I look at his back. His shoulders look larger in the padded navy jacket. This century’s fashion really compliments his beautiful strong body: considering how slowly he takes to change, Aziraphale will probably cling to these clothes for the next two hundred years. Lucky me, I get to keep enjoying the view.

The thought gives me a pang of… what? It tastes like a pinch of lust. A few tons of longing. And much, much loneliness.

Makes sense, after all. I never felt lonelier than when I was surrounded by a crowd. Hell teaches you that, among all the rest.

I smell Hastur’s breath on my shoulder before hearing his croaky voice. When the heavens has he moved from the couch?

“Guess I know what you’re thinking about right now, you flash bastard.”

“I really don’t think you do, _Lady Hastur._ ”

“Want to gut the fool, don’t you? I kind of get that, he looks like a fish out of water, ready for the knife.”

“Don’t underestimate the Principality,” my voice drops in a low growl, “He wields flaming weapons quite well. Impressive with a sword, not too bad with an umbrella either. He’s a fighter, that one.”

“Flames, really? That’s our thing, baby-face. I’d roast the shit out of him before he could say _ouch_. Satan help me, what’s with his mouth? He’s gawking like a rotten idiot.”

“Maybe,” never found anything wrong with his mouth, really, “But he has a pair of damn fine eyes.”

Shit. Did I say that out loud?

Hastur grins. He looks like one of those terrifying porcelain dolls, sitting on a drawer while plotting to murder you in your sleep.

“Meh. They’ll look a lot better once I claw them off that pretty face.”

A boil rises in my blood, quivers in my wrists, and makes my fingers itch. Choking the disgusting maggot against the wall is suddenly a very alluring option.

“For the last time, Hastur: you can fuck with the whole host of Archangels, but the Principality is mine. Touch a hair on his head and you’ll answer to me.”

“A Duke of Hell, answering to a nothing like you? Bring it on, Crowley. I can’t wait.”

He walks away, too, ungraceful in a gown so badly put together that it looks as if it could crumble at the faintest touch.

Bloody heaven, what a night. I basically managed to push Aziraphale and his healing blessings away from Warlock, all the while pissing off one of the management.

Great job, demon Crowley. Have a gold star.

***

“You let her do _what?”_

Aziraphale couldn’t believe what he had just heard.

Yet there Gabriel was, looking at him with a self-satisfied smile as he was sitting at the breakfast table, turning the pages of a human newspaper of which he only enjoyed the illustrations.

“The invitation was addressed specifically to Anathema, not to any of us.”

“So you sent her to dine with a bunch of demons? On her own?”

“Come on, sunshine, relax now. It’s all going to be great.”

“But, Gabriel… Less than a fortnight ago you told me we can’t trust demons, despite the truce!”

“And this is why we gave her seals and all the necessary precautions. She has the Archangel’s markings: no hellish creature can lay a finger on her.”

Oh. Well, that _was_ reassuring, if only a bit.

Sandalphon chortled over his boar leg, still raw enough to let out bloody rivulets at each bit. To Aziraphale’s dismay, the archangel didn’t really chew on the meat, but revelled in the act of biting, licking around the nerves and cracking the bones to suck the marrow out.

“My seal is the best, really,” he said, “Listen to this: any demon who touches the girl will immediately combust in a pool of magma. How’s that for a discorporation?”

“It is a good one, brother,” conceded Michael, patting Sandalphon’s shoulder. “Very imaginative.”

Gabriel opened his palm and pointed at Sandalphon, with an eloquent expression meant to tell Aziraphale: _see? Anathema will be alright._

“And may I ask” the Principality was focusing very hard on controlling the tremor in his voice, “why exactly did you send her on her own?”

Gabriel shrugged. “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? We want her to spend time with her fiancé. The idea was actually hers, and Heaven commends initiative.”

“She should have taken the carriage, at least. You could have teleported her there!”

“Anathema insisted on the horse, Aziraphale,” Michael cut in, cold and serene as a winter breeze. “A very sensible kind of exercise for a girl her age, if you ask me.”

“It will make her hips stronger for childbearing,” added Uriel, who was scribbling busily at the writing desk in the corner of the room.

Aziraphale’s nose twitched in disgust. He couldn’t believe the Archangels were so unconcerned. After twenty years of lovingly raising Anathema as if she was their own! Had they forgotten all the nights they read for her, and soothed her to sleep with a lullaby? All the bruised knees and lost baby-teeth they had dealt with, no matter how squeamish they’d felt the first few times. There had been broken toys mended with frivolous miracles, and games in the fields, come rain or come shine; there had been long hours teaching Latin, mathematics, and German, and the Lord knew how difficult it had been to brush up those subjects since they’d regrettably neglected them for a few centuries. What about brushing her hair before bedtime? Teaching her the country-dances step by step? How many times had they fixed her glasses when the screw got loose?

How do you throw your most precious gem in the direction of your mortal enemy, and trust that she’ll return to you safely?

It amazed him that the Archangels found the strength to keep calm in such a situation.

 _They are superior in every sense,_ Aziraphale thought, worrying his lip. _That is why I was created a Principality. I am defective, compared to them. For Goodness’s sake, I am as old as creation! I should be a serene beam of wisdom, a pillar of faith._

At the moment, he felt much closer to a ball of dread.

He breathed in, dusted his jacket and looked at every speck of dust that danced in the feeble light coming from the window.

“Well I must say, I would have appreciated if you’d given me a little head’s up before allowing the girl to rush out the door. The weather is too unpredictable. She could catch a cold.”

Gabriel chuckled at an illustration in the fourth page of the Morning Post, then said:

“That’d be good, actually. Let the demons waste a miracle or two to ease the fever this time. Our monthly quota is exceeding again _thanks to someone here._ ”

A hot flush rushed from Aziraphale’s cheeks down to his neck.

“Well, Gabriel, I humbly beg to differ. As the girl’s carers, easing her physical and emotional pain is part of our duties. I am sure the Lord wouldn’t blame us if we used a sporadic healing miracle for…”

The newspaper came down on the table with a thud and a rustle of pages. Aziraphale felt the reverberation through the wooden surface, under his palms.

“It’s _Archangel Gabriel_ to you, Aziraphale. Like it or not, I know better than you what kind of miracles She will or won’t allow. The fact we have all been playing home in the past few decades doesn’t mean you should ever forget your place, or mine.” A sickening smile appeared on his lips. “We’re clear about this? Yes? Fantastic, that was an excellent conversation. Thank you for your feedback, we’ll be sure to take it on board.”

Aziraphale took a steadying breath. He had to gulp down the sudden surge of shame, a tide he was well practiced at containing.

He apologised in a small voice, and let the rest of the morning run away pacing in the library, dusting, consulting and piling up all the books that he could lay his hands on. His thoughts were spiralling down, into disturbing visions of young Pulsifer deposing his kind mask to reveal the monster underneath. Visions of Hastur and Ligur, with fangs bared and shiny in the moonlight, hovering over Anathema, while Crowley stood there, arms crossed, doing absolutely nothing to stop them.

The serpent was good at that. Waving intricate plans only to watch them unfold from a distance was his specialty. He never got his hands dirty, but directed the game in the shadows.

That was how his dear Hypatia lost her life.

Aziraphale grabbed the dusty bookshelf, squeezed so hard the plank creaked. No, the archangels had placed their seals, his girl was safe this time. Nothing bad would happen. Anathema would be back soon. It was all going to be fine. He had _faith._

When the first thunder rumbled in the distance, Aziraphale resumed his work with the books with even more alacrity. The rain splashed in buckets against the windows, and the angel’s heart followed suit, roaring furiously inside his chest until it made the ribcage shake.

She must have arrived at Turpinfield by now, mustn’t she? Anathema was surely out of the rain, laughing merrily in front of a fireplace with her betrothed and young Warlock. The demons were probably busy doing demonic things somewhere else. She was warm, she was safe and protected. Aziraphale had to believe so, or he would lose his mind.

But the thousand eyes of his inner conscience, the ones he kept folded away on the same plane of existence where his wings rested, could see a very different scene unfolding.

They saw Anathema frozen to the bones, clothes dripping from the rain, as she sneezed right on the threshold of the estate. Maybe her hosts would spare an occult miracle to dry her up, but it was too late: the chill had got to her bones already. Aziraphale saw her so clearly, having dinner with a very silent, very creepy committee of Dukes of Hell, trying to get the conversation going while sniffing through increasingly blocked sinuses. She grew paler by the minute, and barely suppressed her shivers. When Pulsifer leaned towards her and inquired if she felt alright, Anathema fell face down on her plate.

Aziraphale held his breath, nails digging in his palms.

Silly old angel, none of that was real.

His overactive imagination concocted those terrible scenes to feed his fear. He just had to keep the anxious thoughts at bay until the evening, when Anathema would be home.

And if at dinner time there was yet no trace of her, there was still nothing to worry about. It was very likely she was having such a good time at Turpinfield that she had decided to accept an invitation for dinner, too. Conscientious as she was, she would probably have a message sent to Fellbourn to let the angels know she’d be home later that night. It was only a matter of minutes before they received it.

The minutes lasted long, long hours.

When the message finally arrived, the whole host was sitting at the dinner table, more as a habit than anything else. The only ones who’d eat were usually Sandalphon and Aziraphale, but that particular evening the Principality had been picking at his plate with no real interest. His eyes were fixed at the window, looking at the impending shadows as if his thoughts alone could whisk Anathema back home.

When Michael came in with the piece of paper, he felt a glimpse of hope. That spark readily died once the Archangel announced:

“It’s from the demon Crowley.”

It was still alright. Crowley had written the message: so what? It meant nothing. Aziraphale forced a smile on his face. “And what does it say?”

“Oh. Well, the girl has developed a temperature, apparently. Riding in the rain this afternoon, and whatnot…”

Whatnot? What kind of jargon was that? Aziraphale needed to know. Was it a code for _she’ll be right as rain in the morning_ or did it mean _come and give her the last rites_ instead _?_

Michael did nothing but shrug.

“The demon says he could teleport her back to Fellbourne…”

Splendid idea. Sensible chap, that Crowley: Aziraphale felt suddenly ready to forgive him 5850 years of wiles.

“…but he thinks it could likely mess with her weakened system, and nobody can predict what complications would arise.”

Foul Crowley. Vile serpent. He wasn’t sensible at all, and Aziraphale would never fall for his ruses again.

Michael continued reading the message. Crowley thought it would be better if Anathema stayed at Turpinfield for the night. She would be well looked after and returned to her family as soon as she was able to move.

Michael kept talking, and at some stage the other Archangels said something, too. Aziraphale heard none of that. All he could think of was that his hidden eyes had seen it happen. He had known that something was wrong with Anathema, and had ignored the signs.

He jumped on his feet, sprinting towards the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Gabriel was standing between Aziraphale and the entrance to the hall, now. He’d got there in the blink of an eye, but the Principality wouldn’t let that faze him. Gabriel was fast: so what? Aziraphale was stubborn, and not the weakest of the host.

“She needs me.”

“She’ll be fine.”

“They basically kidnapped her!”

“Come on now, Az, cut off the dramatics. She doesn’t feel great and they are keeping her in for the night, it’s no big deal.”

“Alone. At night. In the house of the devil! There is no bigger deal than this!”

Aziraphale’s voice rang new and foreign to his own ears. The force of it surprised his siblings, too. Sandalphon left the remains of the dismembered chicken on the plate. Uriel stopped writing. Michael was watching Gabriel, waiting.

“Listen, Aziraphale, I am telling you it not as important as you think it is,” Gabriel countered. “You might not be aware of that, but the balance has shifted. It has for a while, now.”

“What do you…”

“The girl is not essential to the Plan, not anymore. We can take a few more risks with her than we used to in the past.”

That knocked the air out of Aziraphale’s lungs.

“More… risks?”

Michael rose slowly from her chair. “We had deliberated not to tell you because we knew you’d react poorly.”

“What is going on?” With every syllable the Archangels uttered, Aziraphale felt the ground under his feet shaking, “Michael, I don’t understand… what did you…”

“We all know how attached you grew to Anathema over the years, but you must see reason, Aziraphale. Considering that Hell is very prudently raising two wards, we decided to even things out.”

His throat. It pulsed. There was no spit left in his mouth, and the more he swallowed, the more it hurt.

“Even things…?”

“We have our eyes on the widow’s niece. It’s not like she has many more prospects in life, as you know, so our tutelage will be her making. Moreover, she’s eleven, like the smaller hellspawn.”

“So,” Aziraphale elaborated, desperately trying to hang on to words in order not to sink, “you mean you decided to create a spare protégé? In case something happened to Anathema…”

“In that unfortunate case, young Pepper will marry Warlock. We will have to wait just a few more years, but the balance would be intact and the prophecy untouched.”

Gabriel opened his arms, smiling. His mouth looked like a bear trap.

“See, I told you. We can afford to take risks, now. I wonder why we never thought of this solution before.”

Aziraphale couldn’t believe the words he was hearing. They all came to him as if he were underwater, sinking deeper and deeper.

He had to speak now. He had to say something, anything, just to prove to himself that he wasn’t drowning.

“But… the Prophecy. The One and Only Prophecy! It’s about Anathema, we all agreed!”

Uriel stood up at that stage, their eyes closed, solemn in countenance.

“ _Join thou the stock of Cain with that of Abel_ ,” they started reciting.

“ _Prepare thou swift the nuptial chamber sweet,_ ” Sandalphon joined, as he raised slowly, “ _f'r that ancient desire, born first in yonder place wh're thy w'rd’s lost,_ _shalt then announce the ineffable design…_ _”_

Aziraphale knew the verses. Those were the instructions that Agnes Nutter, last prophetess on Earth, had carved on the front of her book, the one that laid under lock and key in Gabriel’s study. The book was said to contain God’s Plan for the world in preparation to Armageddon, and it wouldn’t open until the conditions carved on its cover were fulfilled.

The Archangels were all reciting, now, Gabriel included. Their voices droned in the room, the sound swell and grew until it exploded with the thunder outside.

“ _And thou wilst bid the exchanged vows as sacr'd,_

_in Heaven’s eyes and Hell’s, by law of men_

_f'r once the kiss of fyre and brimstone shalt be share’d,_

_thyne eyes shall see the Plan the L'rd intend'd_

_and whoev'r cometh between those folks thus join’d_

_shall fear the unbridled rage of God H'rself.”_

His siblings were right. Nowhere in the Prophecy there was a name to be found. That didn’t mean anyone could take Anathema’s place in the destiny that God had set down for her. Not if Aziraphale had a say in it.

Gabriel’s eyes were so deeply purple right now that the room swam in a violet haze. Aziraphale squinted, but didn’t relent.

“Stand back, Principality Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate. Let God’s will be done,” the Archangel said, and the veins of Creation beat in time with his words.

“No.”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“This is not God’s will _,”_ Aziraphale said, _“it’s yours.”_

And his eyes opened. All thousand of them.

It was a slow awakening. The sealed eyelids peeled off his skin and let the pupils take in the faint candlelight. Figures danced and expanded in his new, multiple perceptions of reality. It was like looking at the world through a prism, while being simultaneously aware of the many overlapping nuances, and shapes, and colours.

With each facet he took in, Aziraphale finally saw what had been in front of him for a long time. What he had willingly ignored until now.

Gabriel never read Anathema to sleep. Uriel never sang her lullabies, and certainly Sandalphon didn’t tend to her cuts, nor Michael help her bury her lost baby-teeth for good luck, not even once. The one who had repaired toys, repaired glasses, repaired the hems of all Anathema's ripped dreams had been Aziraphale, and Aziraphale alone.

Anathema was _his_ girl, not the Archangels’.

They didn’t care for her. In case she died tomorrow, they had found an adequate replacement already. They would barely spare a tear.

“ **Let me go to her, Gabriel,** ” Aziraphale spoke in the same voice that had helped Adam name the animals and the plants in Eden. The same sound had made the tides rise for the first time, and chained their movements to the gravitational force of the moon. There was raw power in it, ready to explode.

“ **You lost sight of the bigger picture,** ” Gabriel said. “ **I should have had you reassigned a long time ago.** ”

The Archangel was changing, too. His wings were manifesting, all of them: they looked more real by the minute, heavy and lined with burning solar flares. Gabriel’s neck was craning, as the skin melted on the jaw, adhering to the bone beneath. If he tilted his head so, his nose looked like a beak, and his profile like an eagle’s.

Aziraphale wished now, more than ever, for his sword. How many chances did a Principality have against an Archangel?

None.

But that didn’t mean he would give up anytime soon.

“ **Brothers.** ”

One of Michael’s hands touched Gabriel’s forearm. The other held onto Aziraphale’s pinkie, one of the few places on his skin where additional eyes hadn’t manifested.

“ **Peace be with this house and all who live here**.” It wasn’t their sister speaking to them now, but the Defender of Faith who had hurled the rebel Lucifer down from Heaven. “Gabriel, let Aziraphale go to Turpinfield, if he so wishes.”

Aziraphale’s thousand eyes blinked at the same time. “Really?”

“Really?” echoed Gabriel, his many wings pressing between two pillars; as the primaries twitched, a precious porcelain vase fell from its pedestal and crashed into pieces. Uriel’s eyes rolled at the ceiling: a click of their fingers, and the damage was undone.

Michael only nodded. Reluctantly, Gabriel stepped aside.

Aziraphale mouthed a faint “thank you” to Michael as he walked right into the wet darkness of the stormy night, directed to Turpinfield. He might have, in his hurry, forgotten to close a few eyelids: that could only come in handy to see through the dark, or so he hoped.

May the Lord forgive him for defying the Archangels’ authority, but he had already lost one protégé to Crowley’s wiles. He couldn’t let history repeat itself.

***

Dog has been barking non-stop for half an hour, now.

“I don’t understand what the problem is, this time,” Newt says, all flushed and flustered, kneeling on the mechanical beast to find out why we are five barks away from going deaf.

After the girl fainted at the dinner table, earlier tonight, the boy hasn’t stopped sweating through his palms. The screwdriver slips off his hand: I have to stop him before he can touch Dog, or no demonic miracle will be able to restore the poor automaton this time.

“Ah, yeah, ‘f course,” I mumble. How could I forget? Wake up, Crowley, you wanker, “My fault, I left his settings on Aggressive. Come here, you little grinder. Let’s fix you up.”

I reach for the little lever under the automaton’s belly; the moment I click it, the clanging bark falls silent, just as our front door smashes open.

Newt takes a step back. Dog, clever machine that he is, whines and puts his sheet metal tail between his legs.

In front of us stands an angel, soaked and furious and scary as Heaven.

His eyes of smoke and tempest look at me. _All_ of them. Glorious Satan, there’s a pair opened on his cheeks. One on the forehead. Who knows how many are hiding under the heavy layers of clothing.

He’s terrible. He’s beautiful. I remember his threat at the dinner party, and for a moment I think: _this is it for me, and what a way to go_.

Newt, right beside me, whimpers.

“ _ **Where is she?”**_ says Aziraphale, and _unholy fuck,_ that’s the language of Creation he’s using.

“U-upstairs,” the boy rattles like a salt shaker.

Alright, old serpent: time to get yourself together.

I stand up, holding Dog under my arm in case the angel decides to go on a rampage. I click with my free hand: within three seconds, Merriman appears from the servants’ quarters. The sight of Aziraphale with his extra eyes open leaves the butler unperturbed.

“Merriman, will you please show Mr Fell the way to Miss Bennet-Fell’s room?”

“With pleasure, Mr Crowley. Mr Fell, would you like to leave your coat for me to hang?”

Aziraphale scoffs. With a quick gesture of his fingers, the dripping overcoat disappears.

“Very well, sir,” says Merriman. “Please, follow me upstairs.”

The angel does, not without shooting me a long, searing glance that I meet with a grin.

It’s only when he’s gone that I let the mask fade. Bloody heaven, that was a close one. Newt, only slightly recovered from the shock of seeing a drenched angel with a few extra eyes storm inside our house, keeps flexing his hands over and over.

“Crowley… Do you think Merriman will be alright?”

“Ah, I wouldn’t worry about him. The angel will calm down once he sees Anathema is safe.”

“Do you reckon? Well, that’s a relief. I’ll trust your judgement since you’ve known Mr Fell for a long time. He sure looked intimidating, a minute ago.”

I shrug. “’f course he is intimidating. He is worried about his child.”

Newt smiles at this. He dabs his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Who knew? Angels and demons are more alike than I would have thought.”

“What the Heaven are you on about? We are nothing alike, him and I.”

Lizard-boy smiles and says that I’m right, of course I am. I’ve never felt more foolish, but I am in a forgiving mood and decide to let him go without spilling any of his blood. Bravo, Crowley. A+ parenting here.

For hours, there’s no sound coming from the house. I can smell a hint of incense from the corridors: Aziraphale must be trying to heal Anathema with his powers. I wonder if the Archangels’ seals will let him meddle. I’d thought about attempting a healing myself, but with those symbols in place I might burn the girl down instead of helping her. Well. Now she has at least one godfather by her side who gives a bless if she lives or dies. Good for her. With the number she did on herself this afternoon, riding all alone through the rain to come here, I was beginning to worry.

Warlock has settled in for the night. We agreed that, on occasions, he’s allowed to sleep in my bed: I’ll have the ceiling as usual. From there, it’s easy enough for me to reach him if he needs me. Let’s hope a bit of the angel’s blessings for Anathema lingers in the air and helps my boy, too. The effects of the first benedictions are wearing off; the last couple of nights have been, let’s say, _not really great_ _._

For the moment, I am not settled enough to lie on the ceiling, so I sit by the windowsill instead, listening to the rain as it crashes against the glass panels. The boy mutters in his sleep; Dog clanks beside him, a messy tangle of metal and hellish power curled up against Warlock’s side. Maybe, turning on the Aggressive mode again could be an idea. Just in case someone else decides to break in tonight.

I breathe as deeply as I can. Sometimes it feels like I’ve done nothing but breathe in, for the whole six thousand years I’ve been alive. There will be an end, at some point. One’s lungs are bound to explode after a while, aren’t they? I’ll have to breath out sooner or later, that’s how this whole body business is supposed to work.

But every time I think I’m ready to let go, I see the angel, and, well. I breathe in deeper then, trying to memorise his scent: if I do, maybe that little part of him will stay with me.

Hell help me. I can’t stop thinking of Aziraphale’s fine eyes.

The whole lot of them.

  
  
  
  


1 This author doesn’t share Warlock’s opinion on this. She, in fact, loves cyclamens. In the language of flowers they _do_ seem to mean _resignation_ and _goodbye,_ though, so she quite fervently joins the young hell-spawn in hoping dear Newton didn’t get Anathema any of the kind.


	6. An Angel's Lullaby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An angel and his ward are now stuck in the demons' mansion.  
> As some dynamics between the inhabitants of Turpinfield are revealed, Aziraphale realises can't trust the Archangels anymore. Does this mean he will turn to his foul fiend for help? Crowley sure understands what it means to be a parent, but can Aziraphale ever confide in him again, after what passed between them in Alexandria?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have any excuse this time, other than... life. Stress. Pandemic. And a new pet - a gentle, mature black cat I've recently adopted from the local shelter and renamed Hamlet. He's a sweet soul, but taking care of him is forcing me to face some emotional burdens I have avoided for years. He's worth it though. His purrs bring me so much joy!
> 
> I hope all of you are taking good care of yourselves during these trying times. 
> 
> I've been tweaking with the future plot a bit, and realised the whole story will probably be shorter than I thought. Most likely, 15 chapters or so. I am following the BBC miniseries as a rough guideline (I read the book, both in Italian and in English, but I find it easier to go back to the dvds for a quick reference), and in my most recent rewatch I realised what I can effectively trim since it doesn't serve my supernatural plot. 
> 
> Lately, I've been thinking of changing George Wickham into an OC. I am still not completely sure about this, but I'll see if he works well on the page once I introduce him in the next chapter.  
> I also wanted to mention that, for what concerns the story of Hypatia of Alexandria, I am mostly referencing the 2009 movie Agora, with a mesmerising Rachel Weisz. I didn't realise how well it fit with my P&O version of Aziraphale until I rewatched it and heard her thoughts about the perfection of the circle XD 
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy! I won't make promises on when the next chapter will be out, but I'll be on midterm break soon, so hopefully that will allow me to focus on several writing projects! Thank you so much for reading despite the long hiatuses. No matter how slowly... we will get there! Promise.

**Chapter 5: An Angel’s Lullaby**

My hands twitch as I follow the butler along the dark, imposing corridors of Turpinfield Manor. A few celestial eyelids flutter under my clothes. Oh, bother. The dampness from the storm has made its way through the many layers. It digs into my pores with the dogged persistence of ten thousand fine needles, making its way through the sparse eyelashes, poking the sclera as if laughing at me.

I should feel strong, in this state of half-transformation that leads to my True Form. As a matter of fact, I don’t. Under the simmering rage that fueled my inhuman walk through the storm I detect lots of shame, a touch of misery, and more than a hint of loneliness – deeper than I have ever felt before.

The little outburst from earlier has broken the glass of my perceptions, forcing my awareness to flutter between the ethereal dimension and the tangible realm. I’m not entirely sure if my wings are still out. It feels like they’re dragging behind me, probably leaving long wet streaks in their wake. I don’t have time to check on their consistency, anyways: I am an angel on a mission. My quest right now consists in following a stiff, greying man along the corridors of Turpinfield, in the pursuit of Anathema’s room.

It doesn’t mean my state of unkempt doesn’t bother me. It _does –_ so much my skin crawls at the thought.

I suppose I could use a miracle to dry myself up and clean the mess I left behind, but at the moment I’m afraid of the kind of power I could evoke if I did. My mind is still with the storm.

As it has been before, more times than I care to admit.

In the span of 6000 years, one is bound to witness many a squall. There’s something cathartic about the rain, don’t you think? Especially for a creature who could never really cry, not the way humans do. The truth is, I find the lashing rain whips the heartbreak out of me. It gives shape and weight to all the pain I can’t express, making my body nothing more than a carving in the texture of reality, a solid outline against the veil of a ceaseless deluge. 

I keep following the butler. Our double pacing along the corridor is painfully out of time, but it echoes with the rumbling of distant thunder. The storm is rolling away, threatening someone else’s horizon, but to me, it is still real. It drags my memory back in time, plunging all of my senses into a distant past. Here, it’s happening. I’m far away from Turpinfield Manor now, and on the deck of the Ark, at the mercy of relentless waves.

I spent many a night here, standing against the battering of howling winds. Soon the wood planks will become too slippery under my feet, making me oscillate with the violent wobbles of the ship. Why am I doing this? I could cloud myself in Grace and let the rain slide off, it wouldn’t take more than the snap of two fingers.

But I grab the railing and resist the temptation.

I, who stood tall and firm against the violent gale of Creation, am letting the never-ending storm play with me as if I were a glass marble, flipping me from one side of the deck to the other, holding on to the parapet to avoid falling overboard, my wings slapping against the planks as I force my weight upon shaky knees, arms wide open to receive the Lord’s wrath.

I’m standing out here like a fool, taking it all. And you know why?

Because I am deserving of sanction, too.

I have forsaken my sacred duty, not guarding the humans as well as I could have. So many drowned because of my incompetence in guiding them towards the light. I can take the slap of the rain against my cheeks, dripping down my chest and legs, making my clothes thinner and colder. It’s nothing, really. This corporation isn’t unbreakable, but it surely can endure a lot. If the worst happens, I can petition for another one. The humans who died in the Flood will never share this privilege.

 _Punish me, Lord,_ I thought back then _, and make their burden lighter instead_.

Tonight, more than four thousand years later, I feel just as drenched, just as guilty and hopeful against all odds. A similar prayer is on my lips. _Take my wings, if You deem it necessary. Take as much of eternity from me as You see fit, but let me heal my Anathema. I ask for nothing else._

The butler knocks on the door. I have no patience for etiquette, tonight: a click of my fingers snaps it open, revealing a figure, clad in muslin and cotton covers, all curled up in a fairly large bed.

Reality gets into focus all at once. The multi-faceted vision of my additional eyes merges, layer after layer, until all the plains of existence concentrate on Anathema alone.

“Oh. Oh, my darling girl.” I sit on the bed, reaching out to prod her shoulder. The other hand runs to her forehead.

She’s burning up. Her eyelids flutter, but she doesn’t answer.

“It’s alright, dear. Everything is fine now. It’s me, Aziraphale. I’ve come to heal you.”

As I caress her dark brown hair, I can’t help but think about what Gabriel and the others said.

The replacement ward.

The affordable risk-taking.

My angelic essence unfolds in concentric rings around me, a solar system that engulfs Anathema in its light as if to protect her from those very ideas. I might be a zero in the sum of the Host, but my love for this girl must count for something, in the end. I refuse to think otherwise.

“I’ll leave you to it, sir,” the butler says, politely, from the threshold. “Would you like me to bring refreshments in ten minutes or so?”

“No-ahem- thank you. We will be fine.”

“Perfect, sir. Please, ring the bell by the bedside if you require my assistance.”

With that, the strange little man walks away. That’s when I notice that the eye on my forehead is still wide open.

Oh, well. I suppose I won’t have to waste a _do not be afraid_ on this one.

“Aziraphale,” Anathema groans as soon as the door closes.

“Ssssh. Don’t fret, dear: soon I will be able to take you home.”

“No, please, Aziraphale. Listen to me.” She opens her eyes, they’re glassy and reddened. She’s still oddly crouched on the bed, her hands on her stomach under the covers. I call the healing energy to my palms and impose them on her arm: immediately, the archangel’s seals flare up, manifesting around Anathema, each one rotating in its own efficient orbit. From Gabriel’s seal, a thunderbolt blazes in a triumph of violet glory and whips at me.

I let out a whimper. The pain explodes all at once when I bring the offended finger-pads to my mouth.

Oh, fuck… That hurt quite a bit if I’m being honest.

“My God,” Anathema calls out, raising on her elbow. “Aziraphale, are you alright?”

I can see she’s squinting as if the only effort of keeping her head up were a herculean undertaking.

“Yes, of course. Tickety-boo.”

As I suck on my injured finger, the gravity of the situation dawns on me in full force. The Archangels’ seals can’t be broken by anyone but the ones who cast them. How am I supposed to heal her fever if they won’t let me near her core?

Not that a little jolt of electricity could stop me from trying.

Anathema catches my hand midair. “Please, don’t.”

“It will take just a jiffy, dearheart. Let me try to-”

“You don’t understand! This… was planned.”

I must confess I gape for a second.

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said.”

“You aren’t faking the fever. I’d know if you were.”

“Yes. You always-“ she stops and coughs against her shoulder. The sound rattles in her chest, but she smiles and swallows hard to soothe her throat. “You always know. That’s why I had to… make it believable.”

Her hands haven’t left mine, but my fingers have gone limp.

Breathe in, Aziraphale. There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for this, you know there is.

“You see…” Anathema starts, sniffing, her voice coming out uncharacteristically feeble. “When I decided to ride under the rain, I was planning on getting a proper cold. Nothing serious, of course. Just enough to stay away from the Archangels for a while.”

“Oh, but dear, this is… this is _lunacy_!”

I almost immediately regret the word. Over the past couple of centuries, I happened to work, on and off, at the Bethlehem Royal Hospital. Having exposed quite a few of their corrupted administrations and witnessed the tortures inflicted on the suffering souls in there, I should know better than use a word that carries such pain as an insult. But apparently, my mouth is almost as foul as my thoughts tonight.

“Why would you even try to do that to yourself?”

Anathema lets go of my hands and takes out a black leather-bound volume from under the pillow. I recognize it. It’s the grimoire she persuaded me to get for her.

“I need to read this, from cover to cover. Michael is following me anywhere when we’re at Fellbourne, I just can _never_ crack it open without her breathing on my neck.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Goodness, she’s truly my child, isn’t she? Ready to go to such lengths for the chance to read a book in peace.

“Was Mr Pulsifer your accomplice in this absurd endeavour?”

“Please, don’t take it out on him. He’s a sweet man. The idea was mine.”

“I still don’t understand. What is it you’re looking for inside the book, Anathema? What is worth risking your health?”

Her eyes, made glassy by the cold, look at me with firm determination, a sentiment just barely undermined by her quiet sniffles.

“I need to find a way to get to Agnes’ book,” she says. “The one Gabriel keeps in his office. I’ve managed to… ah… have a look at a couple of pages of the grimoire so far. I believe it could-”

Another series of violent coughs, followed by a quite visible shiver, interrupt her passionate defense. Instincts prevail, and I help her lie down again, manifesting an additional blanket to drape around her shoulders.

“Goodness Gracious, your head must be thumping like a drum.”

She’s not resigned, of course.

“Look here. Page fourty-two. There’s a transference curse that one can place on books, to mirror their content on a piece of blank paper. Don’t you see? We can place the curse on Gabriel’s book and…”

I take the grimoire she’s flailing under my nose, and relocate it under the pillow. “I promise you, we’ll speak about this once you feel better.”

Her eyelids flutter.

“Mh… you may have a point.”

“Now I’m properly worried. You must be very unwell if you let me prevail this easily.”

“I hope you enjoy your rhetorical triumph while it lasts.”

We share a faint smile before she slips down against the pillows. Since the Archangels have _so generously_ prevented me to do any real healing, there’s nothing else left for me to do than to take the bowl and washcloth sitting on the bedside and freshen up her forehead and temples. I can at least use a miracle to make the water cold again, but it’s not much consolation.

Anathema sighs, her eyes closed as the cloth travels her damp skin.

“Aziraphale… you won’t take me back to Fellbourne while I’m asleep, will you?”

“No, my dear. If it is your wish to stay here longer, then I’ll abide.”

“Fine. I trust you. You are the only one who’s ever… listened.”

She looks so much younger, right now. I move to sit a bit closer on the bed, extend a wing on her head to protect her face from the candlelight.

“I’m afraid I haven’t always heard your reasons. But I’ll do better in the future, please be sure of that.”

As I keep administering the useless ailment, I find myself humming a lullaby. As a child, she had always liked it, to the point that she refused to go to sleep if I hadn’t sung it to her at least twice.

_Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly, lavender’s green_

_When I’ll be king, dilly dilly, you will be queen_

_Who told you so, dilly dilly, who told you so_

_‘Tis mine own heart, dilly dilly, that told me so…_

Anathema’s breath is steady and deep when I become aware of the presence on the threshold. It is a testament to the depth of my worry that I didn’t even hear the door open.

Warlock’s big bright eyes run to the floor the minute I raise my head.

“It’s not like I was spying on you or anything.”

“I didn’t think you were.”

This boy is always so jumpy. His fingers flex on the doorjamb; his other hand scratches the back of his neck. Dear Lord, does Crowley have him take a bath every now and then? This demonic education is questionable in more ways than one.

“’s just… I heard you come in and stuff.”

Oh. He even speaks like Crowley. If he enters proper society talking like that he’ll end up either in prison or at the stake in no time. He can’t use demonic wiles to protect himself from that dreadful outcome like Crowley does. A human boy of sharp of tongue and blunt of speech has pretty much his destiny sealed.

“I hope you know my rage at the door wasn’t directed at you,” I say, in the most soothing tone I know.

“Crowley didn’t do anything bad, I swear.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“He’s a good one, you know. I understand why you wouldn’t believe it, they say demons are evil or something, but he’s actually really nice.”

I scrunch my nose in distaste. As much as I’d like to contradict the boy’s statement, I know a direct confrontation will only alienate him from me. I have to be cautious, for Warlock’s sake.

“Well, don’t let him catch you say anything like that out loud. A demon’s honour is a serious matter.”

Warlock shrugs. He has stopped torturing the nape of his neck, and devoted his attention to a fascinating crack on the floor that the tip of his toe seems dedicated on exploring.

“You have a pretty voice. I liked the lullaby you were singing.”

“Why, thank you. That’s very kind of you to say.”

“Listen, I,” the boy looks like he’s gouging the words out of his throat with particularly thick hooks, “I want to help with this prophecy book thing. I heard them talking, Newt and Miss Bennet-Fell. They said we can read our destiny in there, and even make things happen to people.”

“I’m afraid matters aren’t this simple, dear boy.”

“But if it’s a book of prophecies, all that is written on it must come true.”

“All that God ordered Agnes Nutter to write is certainly true, but if I were to scribble _give me brioches right now_ on the border of the pages I’m afraid my plate would stay quite empty.”

“So we can’t write on this book to make things come true?”

“Prophecies don’t quite work like that, no.”

“Fine, then.”

I sense there’s a lot more he’d like to say. I slowly put the bowl back on the bedside table and sit a bit more properly.

“Where does this idea come from, young man?”

“Which idea?”

“Writing something down, so that it will come true.”

“Nothing.”

He shrugs again: this time, the shoulders engulf his neck for so long I’m afraid he’ll have cramps tomorrow. This boy is like a turtle trying to withdraw in the shell. I fail to see the danger that’s scaring him off. Is it me? Or something over my shoulder?

What exactly is happening in this house, when nobody’s looking?

“Whatever you’d like to tell me, I-“

“It’s nothing, I said!”

The sudden outburst makes me wince. Thank Goodness, Anathema doesn’t even flinch in her sleep; but before I can stand up and ask Warlock why he’d snap like that, the boy runs out the room.

My mind runs at the latest ball, remembering Crowley’s business proposal.

A bet, to influence the boy for the good.

Would it help Warlock at all, if I kept bestowing blessings upon him?

I guess that, much like Anathema, in order to find my answers I’ll have to stay in this house a bit longer than anticipated.

*

In the next couple of days, Crowley watches me at all times. He believes I can’t see him, but I feel the weight of his golden eyes from behind the dark lenses. His gaze follows me quietly, trying to pass undetected as if he were a wild animal studying an intruder in his territory from a great height.

I can’t blame him for being wary of me: after all, I am legitimately trespassing into his propriety, and I did so with quite the belligerent intentions. In the beginning, at least.

Yet, staying segregated inside Anathema’s room would be terribly impolite on my part. This might be a hostage-situation, but that doesn’t mean I have to resign my manners and start acting like an uncivilized creature. Even War has its rituals and its own peculiar graciousness, at least before heads start to blow off.

“Mr Fell!” Pulsifer frets when, on the second morning of our stay, I walk into the drawing-room, “It’s good to see you, sir. Is your ward any better today?”

The thick glasses magnify a pair of deep, dark bags under his eyes. He might have been in the ploy all along, but at least he seems to be aware that Anathema’s sickness is very real, and not something to underestimate.

Is this enough to quench my hostility towards him? I can’t yet decide.

I make a show of clearing my voice. “I’m afraid Anathema is still quite ill, Mr Pulsifer.”

I don’t add the obvious: _and I personally hold you responsible for this_ , but the boy is smart enough to hear the subtext. His face falls.

“I see. Well, let me send for the doctor in town. And of course, you must stay with us too until Miss Bennet-Fell is recovered.”

I glance briefly at Crowley, who seems to be very busy pretending he’s reading some human newspaper. He looks like he’s taking in every single word down to the full stops and commas, scanning each article twice, then backwards, just to better scoff at it.

“Alas,” I say to Pulsifer, ignoring the fiend, “the Archangels have sent her in here with very strong protections. I haven’t been able to undo them, and I doubt a human doctor could approach Anathema without getting burned himself.”

I feel a pang of dark satisfaction at Newt’s guilty expression. In other circumstances, the boy would have received a good talking to; but with his guardian here, I have to be careful how I play my hand.

I’m about to suggest I’d go back to Anathema’s room when an indistinct muttering emerges from the pages of the newspaper.

“I beg your pardon… what was that, Mr Crowley?”

“Just saying,” the demon speaks louder this time, “The girl’s more resilient than you both give her credit for.”

I feel one of my eyebrows shoot upwards, stretching to the top of my forehead.

“Do you believe my worry to be misplaced?”

“You’re fussing over a common cold, angel.”

And he even dares to interject! I have no words to describe his conduct, truly.

Arms folded across my chest, I reply with all the poison I can muster: “If you reach the mortuaries at the bottom of the last page of the novelty-chart you are perusing, you’ll see how many have died for a _common cold_ only this week.”

“Novelty-chart?” Pulsifer echoes.

Crowley barely shrugs. “He means _newspaper_. ‘s been calling them funny names since the Holy Roman Empire.”

Which is not entirely true. I stopped using the early quaint appellatives somewhere at the end of the Seventeeth century, but I am not oblivious to the fact that my habit of employing outdated terminology irks Crowley to no end. I fully enjoy watching the annoyed wrinkle form across his forehead. Knowing I am the cause of it is the source of even greater satisfaction.

The object of our linguistic contention falls on the table in a rustle of pages.

“Look, I’m not saying that death by sniffles is out of the realm of possibilities. Only that it’s unlikely, given her age and health. The girl’s strong, is all I’m saying.”

“The girl _has a name,_ ” I snap, “And for the life of me I don’t remember asking for your medical opinion on the matter.”

At this – obnoxious, infuriating creature that he is! – Crowley wiggles his eyebrows.

“Count yourself lucky that I don’t ask you for my honorarium, then. I doubt you could afford my services anyways.” 

The absolute poppycock. How dares he joke in such a dire situation?

I’m already taking a firm step in his direction when Pulsifer intervenes.

“Oh, Crowley! Didn’t you tell me once that you studied under Hyppocrates? And you invented the Plague’s Doctor mask, didn’t you? For when you visited the lazarets, while the Black Death was sweeping Europe.”

The wretched demon has the nerve to dive his nose back into the newspaper.

“Yeah, well. The Fourteenth Century has been a tough one on everybody.”

“So you told me. Didn’t you use to perform miracles under the name of…”

A gesture of Crowley’s hand, loosely miming the tight sealing of an orifice, shuts Pulsifer up for good.

“Miracles from a demon, ah,” I mumble, “a perfectly deceptive tactic to exert your wiles. I’m sure you caused more than a little hindrance in Heaven’s accounting department.”

“Yeah, exactly that. You said it, angel.” There’s a metallic echo in his voice, a bite of steel that I don’t remember hearing before. It lasts but a moment. “Bottom line is: the girl…”

Crowley must see something in my face that compels him to stop and correct:

“ _Anathema_ will be fine. Give her three days to sleep the fever off, then you can leave this house you seem to despise so much. In no time you’ll be choosing a filling for the wedding cake, and this nightmare of a truce will be all over before you can say _Get Thee Behind Me_ , I promise.”

I shoot him a smouldering look.

“I know the value of your promises, demon. They’re holed coins, good for nothing but the gutter.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. For a moment he looks paler, his freckles emerging like rocks in the low tide.

I turn my back and march out of the room, with no bow and no word of farewell. I walk, and walk, and the corridor feels as if it could cover the distance from Marathon to Athens.

Did I hurt him with that last remark?

Well, I’m glad if I did.

Fending off the Adversary is part of my duties, after all.

It’s not as if Crowley has any business looking like a kicked puppy. I won’t fall for such basic tricks. Only once before I’ve been foolish enough to take his words as honourable and true. I paid the price for my naivety. The Lord only knows how steep that price was.

_*_

_I remember that night._

_In this forever revolving world, this never-ending ellipsis of time and lives - some in, some out, and some coming in again – it’s important to hold on to the moments that change us._

_All of this could have been avoided if I hadn’t got involved in the human affairs, I know; but I am only a flawed being, and could never refrain from being partial to places, to dishes, to art; only occasionally, though, I have been partial to people. I can count those humans on the tip of my fingers. I carry their crosses as if they were extra bones in my skeleton, sculpted deep inside me. More than monuments, they are pillars to my whole being. I think they weigh me down, at times; but the truth is, without them I wouldn’t be able to stand._

_I have felt at home in Alexandria of Egypt, for so many centuries. What wasn’t there to love? The art, the philosophy, and all those amazing, enticing words being exchanged by wise people, amazingly creative and clever people, at every hour, between public debates and libraries that would make my eyes go wide with wonder, as if I were once again in front of the majesty of Creation. Schools, inventions, new ideas. And the sunshine, at times gentle like a lover’s kiss, at times oppressive like… well, maybe now I can say it… like the Host’s peculiar kind of love. Shining bright. Persistent. Forcing me to squint in its presence, but so pervasive I really didn’t know if I’d survive if I’d ever be deprived of it._

_After what happened, I could never live close to the sea again. Did I ever tell you? One tiny human died, and suddenly I found couldn’t tolerate the sand and the sun, and moved to the dampest, greyest place I’d ever seen, and chose to spend the rest of my immortal days there. My heart set for Wessex long before I was assigned there. The fog was a mirror to my lost thoughts, after losing Hypatia._

_What a nincompoop I am. Of course I never told you, Crowley. We were enemies after that night._

_391 AD. I can’t pin down the exact date, but I’m sure it was summer. I remember the humidity crushing my bones down, the sweat and salt coating my skin. Everybody’s breath was heavy with worry and wine. Some sung a broken song, and we all joined in. You did too, if only in a whisper. Ever so worried to look uncool, aren’t you, dear boy?_

_We hunkered down on the steps of a sieged Serapeum, with Hypatia and her students, while a whole army of destruction-seeking fanatics stood on the other side of the wall, ready to stone every symbol of an ancient tradition and everyone who stood to protect it._

_You helped me smuggle books in my toga, remember? Then you held my hands, so impossibly tight. They were cold. You know what they say about people with cold hands._

_You looked at me, unblinking, and I caught half of your golden eyes on the rim of the dark glasses. I thought I saw the emotion in them when you said: “I’ll get the message to the Decurion, angel, I promise. We’ll get to save everyone.”_

_What a mutton-headed dote I was, to believe a demon’s promise._

_Principality Aziraphale: the most foolish of angels, indeed._

_*_

The following days of our stay at Turpinfield aren’t half as terrible as the first one.

Regrettably, I have to admit they feel almost pleasant.

While it is true that Turpinfield’s library can’t hold a candle to Fellbourne’s, the selection I was offered to entertain my time at Anathema’s bedside is overall respectable, and in a perfect state of preservation – which is always lovely to see. The food is nothing short of divine. Crowley wasn’t joking when he said they have a French cook: the display of patisserie at the end of the main meal of the day is simply to _die_ for, and probably the closest replica I have tasted outside of France. I must remember to bless this amazingly talented fellow and his descendants down to a few generations. Such skilled hands are worth their weight in gold, and maybe, if I get to speak to a couple of friends in high places, even a spot into Paradise.

“I found it!” Anathema yells happily at me, her eyes still teary, her nose stuffed. She valiantly breathes through her mouth; her cheeks are red for the effort of reading through the grimoire. I offered to do it for her, but she refused to let me near it. “Read this, Aziraphale. It’s brilliant. It’s exactly what we were looking for!” 

She shows me the page, which I scan quickly. Apparently, she hasn’t selected a spell, but a short essay about the special powers held by people who are both touched by Heaven and Hell.

“My dear, I must confess I’m confused. Are we still trying to find a way to apply your transference spell on the Book?”

I look over my shoulder, restless. Yes, I’ve taken my precautions so that the demons won’t hear what we say in this room, but one never knows what countermeasures the Adversary might have in place.

“And this is the perfect solution!” Anathema claims, her enthusiasm unshaken. “If I get Mr Crowley to curse me…”

“Which I _won’t allow,”_ I promptly remind her.

“Alright. I suppose I could persuade you to bless Newton, then?”

I squint in reply. First names basis, really? Has it come to this? I knew the boy visited her room a couple of times while Crowley tempted me into sampling tartelettes amandine and whipped cream, but I decided to let the infraction to proper courtship etiquette slip in gratitude for the delicious treats. I may have been too careless in the name of sugary goods. The boy is far gone, and Anathema is strong-willed enough to manipulate him into whatever she chooses. He’s a bad company for her. Or her for him. Well, I don’t like the match, and that is enough to justify the sting I feel knowing they’re getting closer.

People in love should bring the best out of each other. Or so I heard.

“I don’t feel particularly inclined to waste a blessing on a young man who voluntarily chooses to side with evil, no.”

She doesn’t seem taken aback by this, which I immediately find suspicious. Anathema and I played too many chess matches for me not to recognise her castling face.

“Thinking about it, there _is_ someone in this house who might have been raised by Hell, but is too young to have properly chosen between good and evil. Someone who took well on your first blessings, and could do better in life with your wise guidance…”

“Anathema Hypatia Bennet-Fell. You are _not_ suggesting what I infer you’re implying.”

My ward bats her long eyelashes as if she didn’t understand the reason for my shock. She would look quite serious if it wasn’t for the sniffles.

“I thought you wanted to show Warlock the path towards the Light.”

“I certainly won’t do so by using him.”

“What about his free will, Aziraphale?”

“He’s just a child! He needs to be guided, not made into a tool.”

“He came to visit me this morning. We spoke for some time. The boy feels…”, she smothers a sneeze into her elbow. Without thinking, I pass her my immaculate handkerchief; in a habitual gesture, she takes it, “… he feels just as powerless as I do. He wants to do something to change our fate: mine and Newton’s, and his own too.”

“And you really believe I don’t understand that? Of course I do.”

“Then why wouldn’t you let Warlock help us? He’s choosing to do so! He’s even ready to go behind Mr Crowley’s back if that’s necessary.”

This should be an incentive for me, I know. Somehow, though, a bitter taste rests on my tongue at the thought.

There’s something about young Warlock. A sort of desperation so deeply rooted that it scares me.

Is it really a choice, if you make it out of fear?

The knot in my chest grows tighter as I think about my confrontation with the Archangels. I never could afford free will, now, could I? Who knows how I’m going to pay for putting my foot down for the first time.

Can I avoid the same punishment to be unleashed on Anathema? Can I protect her, and her Mr Pulsifer, and Warlock too?

Anathema’s eyes look resolute. “But that might not be necessary, after all.”

I blink, slowly.

“What do you mean?”

“Warlock won’t need to go behind his guardian’s back. Newt… Mr Pulsifer,” she catches herself, this time, “swears Crowley would be on our side if we’d explain the situation to him.”

“No.”

“Aziraphale, please, hear me out. I know he’s a demon, but if you’d only seen him with…”

“I don’t care what you saw. You know _nothing_ about him.”

Flashes hit me, fast as shards of tile. They tear at the skin of my heart and make it bleed again.

And I see it once again. Her body, left naked in the church. The gashes opened in her flesh, like mouths stretched around a soundless scream.

They mutilated her. Humiliated her. And I wasn’t there when it happened. I wasn’t holding her when she died…

I stand up, pushing the chair back with my weight.

“Whatever you do, I won’t allow you to fall for Crowley’s charms. He is the Enemy.”

 _My Enemy,_ my heart roars something fierce, filling with ancient warrior pride, _for eternity._

At that, I felt the urgent need to walk away from Anathema’s room. I haven’t stormed out, nothing of the kind: I actually used my most polite smile to take my leave, and if she tried to get her point across once more, well, one couldn’t blame me for pretending not to hear. Every parent knows unreasonable tantrums must be ignored. She’s still talking over me, when I kiss her forehead and tell her I’ll be back to check on her before dinner. She knows better than to try and grab me.

Every step I take under the ridiculously stern paintings that litter the corridor, all belonging to people who have little to do with either Mr Pulsifer or Crowley and must have come with the rental of the house, I’m a step closer to a limit I forgot I had. The marble floor seems to waver under my feet like a ship caught in high waves. 

Sometimes I wonder. Was the Flood ever over?

Not for me. Not at times like this.

*

I swear to the Lord: I was looking for Mr Pulsifer. My original goal was to talk him out of the ridiculous idea of involving young Warlock in the plan. When I enquired after him, Merryman pointed me towards the pool room.

Little did I know that I would find no Pulsifer, there.

Instead, I get to see a very dishevelled Crowley, in a state of undress such as I’m not used to see in gentlemen anymore.

Well, if you must know: he is quite outrageously jacket-less. The damasked waistcoat, as red as good wine, hugs his torso gracefully, magnifying the shape of his shoulders in sharp contrast with his slender waist; the cravat, while still knotted in a fashionable way, seems less tight than one would be expected to wear it in society. The most alluring feature, though, is his bare forearms, framed in rolled-up silk sleeves.

Some configurations of muscles and bones are, in themselves, a special form of poetry, a harmony of tendons and phalanges that peaks, I believe, in Crowley’s lines. A smattering of fine ginger hair covers the lightest scatter of freckles. His wrists would deserve an ode of their own for the way they gently curve into what ancient palmists used to call _the mount of Venus,_ defining a perfectly articulated thumb. Those fingers belong to a virtuoso, but instead of falling on keys or scratching notes out of strings, they twist expertly around the billiard cue. The way he bends on the green table is… somehow... terribly distracting.

I’m holding my breath as the tip of the cue artfully touches the white ball, which rolls inexorably on the green carpet, hitting one of its colourful sisters and sending it straight into the waiting pocket. In this pose, all the angles and curves of Crowley seem to converge on the shape of his backside and the sinful angle of his hips.

The original Tempter hasn’t lost his luster.

“Hey.” He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t move a muscle. “In the desert, a glance like that would have cost you ten goats and five camels, to say the least.”

I can’t find it in me to refute his terrible joke. My cheeks are uncomfortably flushed.

“I-I… My apologies, I… was quite surprised to find you here.”

Languidly, Crowley stands up. There is a liquid quality in his movements, a fluidity in open conflict with the concepts of spine and ribs. He places the tip of the cue in the sharper bowl.

“This is my place, remember? There’s a high chance to find me pretty much anywhere.”

“Well, this house is no stranger to other occult presences. It could have been one of your associates.”

“Nah,” Crowley sighs, scooting along the table to aim for another ball. “Those two are busy lurking somewhere in Surrey at the moment. I think they’re corrupting some pastor, or maybe a politician staying at his country mansion. Pastors and politicians, that’s all they can think about.” He bends again, and if this time the angle is less tempting than before, I still can’t help noticing the perfect curve of his elbows, the jolt of his shoulder-blades under the elegant garments. “They can’t get the bigger picture, reframe their thinking for a wider scale. Think about it for a second. A wide-spread mild inconvenience will generate a far higher amount of evil than a couple of souls plucked here and there: ‘s pretty straightforward, isn’t it? But do they listen to me? Ah, don’t get me started.”

“I have no intention to.” I can’t help but smile. What am I doing? I should be out of this room. Any minute, now. “Do you deem it safe to discuss your headquarters' policy with one of the opposition?”

Crowley grins, his glance shooting up at me. He’s not wearing his glasses, which is both terrifying and exhilarating. There’s a sparkle in his serpentine eyes, today.

“What are you going to do, exactly? Copy my business plan?”

We look at each other for a long moment. I, on the threshold. Him, behind the pool table. The grin dies on his lips. He clears his throat.

“How’s Anathema?”

“Thank you for asking. I believe she feels a little better today.”

“ ‘s good to hear.” 

An unreasonable voice in my head screams: _tell him. Tell him everything._

He might have deceived you and God knows how many others, but he will do the right thing for his boys. Anathema is right in one respect: the demon is soft for Warlock – hold on a minute, no, he has offered the boy’s life as a bet between Heaven and Hell – what are you even thinking, Aziraphale? Alright, the part about the bet might be true: but you’ve seen them together, have you not? And Mr Pulsifer speaks so highly of Crowley. As a matter of fact, one cannot say his wards are treated unkindly. For their sake, the fiend might get on board with the plan. He might turn out to be on our side.

I promised I would do anything to keep Anathema safe. If that requires me to swallow my pride, let an ancient grudge rest, and ask for Crowley’s help, I…

The stench of sulfur and putrefaction erupts from the crack of the door, making me gag with its sudden miasma. That’s the kind of effluvium that other demons tend to bring back from Hell.

Crowley’s expression scrunches in disgust.

“Seems like the pastor has been corrupted,” he deadpans, “One more soul for my side. Wahoo.”

“Are they…?”

“Ligur and Hastur, yes.” The way he spits the names out makes me shiver. I might not trust my fellow angels anymore, but apparently the relationships between demons aren’t less strained.

“Should I take Anathema and run?”

“Let me deal with them.”

He leaves the cue and grabs the jacket, carrying it on one shoulder while he passes me. The mighty need to touch his wrist overwhelms me, and I give in to it.

It’s only a moment, but it lingers. I just crossed a strict unspoken boundary between us: I am well aware of this. He is, too.

Crowley looks at me, unblinking, so many different emotions fluttering on his face that I can hardly pinpoint any of them.

“They won’t bother either of you,” he says, his voice low and serious. “And just to be clear, this isn’t a promise. Only a fact.”

I swallow hard around the lump in my throat.

I should apologise to him for the words I said the other day.

Instead, I nod and let him exit the room, a faint essence of pine and brimstone trailing in his wake.

*

You’d wonder how an angel voluntarily segregated into enemy territory found himself re-reading Moll Flanders while three demons, two of which smell like death and ashes, sit not too far away, passing the evening like a serene party of friends sharing a lovely stay in the countryside.

I do wonder the same, and the fact that I’ve been sitting here with my unlikely companions for the good part of an hour is hardly helping my understanding of the situation.

Whatever Crowley has told his co-workers to justify my presence here must have been incredibly persuasive: not only they acknowledge my presence with nothing more than a grunt, but I seem to be tolerated remarkably well, all things considering.

Of course, Warlock and Pulsifer are here, too. The boy sits on the other side of the couch, engrossed in a huge volume titled: The Mysteries of Udolpho. Pulsifer, on the other hand, is trying to explain the rules of Hombre to his dire-looking companions. Crowley is sitting at the writing desk. The rhythmic diving of his pen in the inkwell is the only counterpoint to Pulsifer’s voice.

“Hey, Your Hoe-liness,” creaks Hastur at some point, interrupting Pulsifer’s explanation. The demon’s utterance is as unpleasant as the flutter of moth wings. “Come join us at the table.”

“Actually,” Pulsifer tries to intervene, “Hombre is a game for three people, Mr Hastur...”

“Who says?”

Pulsifer pales, but holds on to his dignity as he pushes his glasses back on the bridge of the nose.

“The rules, sir.”

“Rules are for mortals,” says Ligur, in his deep-seated voice, “Plus, it’s not a game of cards if we don’t have an ass to make a fool of.”

I feel my jaw clenching as I hold on tighter to the book. “Your invitation is ever so tempting, but I’ll have to decline.”

“Ah!” Hastur scoffs, “Boring past-times for boring losers.”

I share a quick glance with Warlock, who’s looking at me over the ridge of his book.

“Excuse me, Mr Hastur, but I dare to dissent. If you’d only open up your mind to the realm of possibilities, you’d find that books hold the incomparable power to elevate the mind and soul like nothing else.”

“Except we don’t have souls,” objects Ligur. The chameleon sitting on his head quickly flickers its tongue, catching an unsuspecting fly.

I turn my nose upwards. “Figure of speech, of course.”

“You don’t have souls? Really? How does that work?” whispers Warlock, half-alarmed and half-intrigued.

I think for a moment how to condense such an intricate matter so that the mind of a very clever eleven-years-old mortal can digest it. I end up shrugging.

“Remind me to introduce you to Dionysius the Areopagite,” I whisper back. Warlock seems to take it more as a promise than a threat.

The boy trusts books more than he trusts people. I can somehow relate to the feeling.

Hastur smiles. It’s the most unsettling sight I ever had the displeasure to behold.

“Does your kind ever do anything fun, Featherybutt?”

“I take pleasure in many things one might deem fun.”

“Like what?”

“Like… sampling human food, for example.”

Ligur’s iridescent glance lands on my belly as if to say _yes, well, everyone can see that._ I feel the sudden urge to make myself smaller, to let my shoulders sag and shield my poor, vituperated middle behind the book. Before I can think of a suitable reply, Hastur’s sneer turns to an unexpected target.

“And what the heaven are you doing down there, Crawley?”

“Finishing up my curse list of the day,” my fiend replies, unperturbed, “Wanna end up on it, Hastur?”

“Ah, and what will it be this time? Rotten candies? A coat with a hole?” The gaunt-faced demon turns to me, probably in search of endorsement. “This one is pathetic, Featherybutt, I tell you. Six thousand years, and he didn’t even get a little marquisate downstairs. All of Hell and their sister got at least a knighthood, but this one? Still the low-rank wimp he was the day he emerged from the pool of sulfur.”

Not a muscle on Crowley’s face moves. His eyebrows stay perfectly still, and so does the pen.

“Know what, why don’t we compare our list of commendations? That Napoleon fellow has gained me another nomination for employee of the century. They gave me a plaque, big brass thing – I keep it in the study, I bet you’re dying to see it. Come on! I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

Hastur scrunches his nose and is about to reply. I’m sure it’s going to be something crass, or boring, or both.

“The French Revolution was one of yours too, I heard,” I cut in while flipping a page. “One has to give Crowley what’s Crowley’s, the Terror was a stroke of horrific evil. We’re still dealing with the aftermath on an international scale. A truly egregious move, in my humble opinion. I wish I could have come up with something like that… acting for the good, of course.”

I feel all the eyes of the room on me at once, but Crowley’s… how can I explain it? Their intensity burns my skin. 

At times I wonder if his glance has ever retained the power to move galaxies and burn black holes into the heart of cosmos. That’s how it feels to have him look at you, in times like this. He must have been pretty powerful, before the Fall.

“Which ones were yours, angel?” Warlock asks me, resting the book on his knees.

“Mine?”

“Yes. The things you did to make the world better.”

A jolt of pain crosses my chest. _Ah, I see. Well, that would be all of the failures. Those are mine._

“He invented the steam engine.”

Crowley hasn’t lifted his eyes from the list he’s writing. Pulsifer gasps audibly and poses an unorderly amount of technical questions. I try to tell him that I did nothing more than expand on Newcomen’s machine. It all started in the most unexpected way, after a drunken night at an inn in Richmond in the delightful company of that bright fellow, James Watt…

“...and the basic work had been done centuries before that, really, by a Heron of Alexandria. Are you familiar with his _aeolipile?_ ”

“Heron didn’t do shit, angel, tell it how it is,” Crowley intervenes, “You were the one who came up with a way to make his steam turbine work, just as you told Watt what to do to build a separate vessel for condensation.”

“Well, dear fellow, I simply pointed out that all that spent steam was a bit of a waste...”

The social evening becomes more pleasurable, from that moment on. We spend some time talking about the story of how I found myself entangled with the engine that is slowly but surely changing this generation: Newt is interested in the technical aspects, while Warlock asks me if it’s true that travelling by a steam-propelled carriage will crush people’s internal organs. Ligur seems taken with this aspect, too. Even Hastur speaks favourably about it. He heard that the increasingly mechanised production of goods will cause a new Rider to be born: in the future, we might get no fewer than Five Riders of the Apocalypse, unless one of them decides to retire – Pestilence has, after all, peaked in the Fourteenth century. Too many people washing their hands, these days. Ligur, for one, thinks old Pestilence had his days counted – and if that’s true, he might as well send his CV to cover the vacancy. A few thousand years serving under the Lord of the Files give you a taste for headhunting.

As Newt asks the butler to bring his projects from the laboratory so that he can show Hastur and Warlock the mathematical calculations on acceleration and pressure, I look at Crowley, still bent on the writing desk, busy with his sleek handwriting.

Why would he intervene in my favour? And how did he know about my involvement with Watt and his engine? Surely, Crowley was well aware that I had lingered around Alexandria a lot after the birth of Jesus. I’d helped save whatever books I could from the several fires and disasters that eroded the Great Library, century after century. But knowing about my input in Heron’s work, and in Watt’s for the matter, requires a closer kind of observation.

A memory comes back to me, violent as lightening. Michael, her chiton covered in blood and ashes, her face grim against the unforgiving sunlight.

_'He was clever, Aziraphale. He must have been observing you for a long time before he decided to approach you. My dear brother, you must be more careful in the future. You’re lucky I had your back, this time.'_

I close my eyes, chest compressed by a boulder that comes back to me heavier every time I think I got rid of it. Standing up and taking my leave feels like a Sisyphean task indeed, but I eventually extricate myself from that room and the quaint company dwelling there.

I find I cannot rest my thoughts tonight; so, while Anathema sleeps, I quietly slide downstairs, headed to the gardens.

A bright moon graces every shape with a silvery touch, mellowing the corners of darkness. I have always loved the velvety hues of blues and purples fading into each other. The night is a cloak, isn’t it? It hides every shameful emotion, each inappropriate heartbeat. One can open his hands in the safety of the shadows, and examine all the thoughts he never dared to name before.

And what a spectacular setting I chose for this personal exploration. Turpinfield is surrounded by luxuriant Italian-style gardens, which unfold in a complex cartography of mazes, sculpted shrubs, marble fountains and mosaics. For a moment I think I’ve stepped into the Ducal Palace in Mantua, ready to counsel Madonna Isabella Gonzaga on the latest work of art she’s acquired in some dubious way or other. She would never listen to me, of course: except for when it came to books. _Mastro Azzirafello,_ she called me, _my invaluable hunter of knowledge._

A hunter. Me! What a notion. Madonna Isabella was a great politician, but tended to bend people’s hearts in the direction that was most convenient to her. If someone didn’t exactly fit her designs, she would shape them to match the frame she had in mind.

Hypatia, on the contrary...

She analysed reality before formulating theories. With the precision of the scientist and the depth of the philosopher, she was the only human – perhaps the only creature under the sun – who ever saw and described the very essence of me.

 _You are a circle, Aziraphale,_ she told me, towards the end of her life. _Perfectly revolving in the orbit that was prescribed for you. You don’t need to step aside the track to find your truth, because you were born with the Truth embedded in your core. You are sure, and eternal, and lonely. But that’s the price you pay to inspire us mortals, isn’t it? The sun burns so that us earthlings can live under its rays. If you weren’t distant and perfect, we couldn’t thrive because of you._

Distant, yes. Perfect: I don’t know. Not anymore.

Am I really ready to do this? Being in cahoots with the demon that I have elected my sworn enemy, the dangerous tempter that has once almost lead me on the road of perdition? Am I strong enough to take this path? Bending is easy, a circle should know everything about it. There is no angle in me, no asperity whatsoever. 

Then why do I find it this difficult to follow this turn?

A sharp, metallic bark interrupts my mute moonlit soliloquy, and I find myself looking down at a bizarre automaton, in the shape of a small terrier, which seems very intent to drive away all the goldfish that reside in the fountain by the power of its clanking bark.

“Shush, you. This noise makes it impossible to think.”

The creature looks up at me, lifting its muzzle in an expression of curiosity. Then, it yelps once more at the fish.

“Ah-ah. None of that, now.” I look at it, sternly, one hand raised. “Sit.”

The infernal dog-like machine whines, then looks intently at my fingers, and obeys.

“Extraordinary.” I can’t help but smile. 

This appears to be the same dog-automaton that was yapping at me when I broke into Turpinfield’s hall during the storm. It seems far friendlier now. How is it even possible to attribute moods and intentions to a heap of cogs and bolts?

There is a distinct possibility that a demonic miracle was involved in its creation. I practice a few simple commands: without skipping a beat, the dog-automaton “stands”, “rolls over”, and “imitates Lord Beelzebub” by releasing a long droning sound. Laughing heartily, I pat it on the head.

“What a remarkable creature you are. Yes, you are. Good creature, you.”

“I see you met Dog, Mr Fell.”

Pulsifer’s voice has the power to startle me, no matter how quiet it sounds in the calmness of the night. I find my hands wriggling nervously as I look at him. 

“Oh. Is this contraption a creation of yours?”

“Dog was my first successful experiment, yes.”

“Rather impressive. How old were you when you assembled it?”

“Almost seventeen.”

I look again at the perfect contraption, shaped as the animal it takes its liking from, and at the same time perfectly functional. So functional, its behaviour holds a semblance of intelligence.

“More than impressive, then,” I say, “Nothing short of...”

“If _miraculous_ is the word you’re about to use, you might not be far from the truth.” Pulsifer smiles, shyly, and bends to pick up Dog. The machine whines in his arms, ears relaxed and foil tail wagging. “Mr Crowley noticed my frustrated attempts to build an automaton for my whole childhood, but it was only after he witnessed a couple of explosions that he decided to nudge my prototype to work with a demonic miracle. I remember his words as if it was yesterday… _This is the last time_ , he told me. _The world is cruel, Newt, you can’t expect to survive it if you wait for others to solve your problems for you. From now on you’ll have to fend for yourself._ And he was true to his promise, you know. Mr Crowley never intruded again, but he kept watching over me every time I failed. Well, yes, he might have tried to persuade me to pursue another hobby every now and then, but he’s always guarding me as I make mistakes and learn from them. One day I’ll show him I’m worthy of his generosity and of the trust he places in me. I might not be good for much, Mr Fell, but I hope I can prove to you that I never let go of what I truly love.”

The young man’s eyes are clear in the moonlight. I wonder if we’re still speaking about machines and miracles, at this point.

“Love doesn’t grow in a couple of weeks, dear one,” I reply, feeling my core of steel coming to the surface. It always does when Anathema is concerned, doesn’t it?

Pulsifer nods, seriously. “Believe me, sir, I’m well aware of that.”

“So you’ll understand that a feeling with the same lifespan of a fly cannot be trusted.”

“But all things everlasting had to begin somewhere. Even immortals were born, or made.” Pulsifer pats Dog’s head. The contraption grunts softly. “When it comes to human matters, there is no way of knowing from the start. All we can do is give our best to keep what matters to us alive.”

 _And oftentimes it’s not enough,_ I want to scream, but hold the impulse between my clasped fingers. _Do you know how much of myself I gave, how much of myself I lost? Do you think someone like you, with your ephemeral existence, could honestly promise_ forever _?_

Before I can put an answer together, a high-pitched screech cuts the night in half. It’s loud, and it’s desperate. It comes from upstairs.

A window was left ajar. Under the cloak of darkness, I cannot tell which one it is; all I know is that Anathema sleeps on that floor.

Without a second thought, my wings unfold. The ring at my pinky finger flares up, hot and ready to evoke the holy flames. If Ligur or Hastur attempted something sinister, they’ll have their eternal life to regret it.

Pulsifer’s hand grabs my arm before I can spring at my girl’s rescue.

“No, please.”

“Let me go, this instant,” I all but growl. The young man swallows hard, but doesn’t let go.

“Mr Fell, please. Anathema is in no danger, I promise you.”

“But the scream...”

“It came from Warlock’s window.”

I pause and take in the notion, the ring still pulsing against my finger. From the room comes a soft, insistent wailing. In the tremor of the shadows I see a sleek, serpentine figure slither from the ceiling downwards, and close my fist.

“Mr Crowley is with him,” Pulsifer confirms my suspicions. “Better let him soothe the boy, he’s the only one who can manage to when he’s like this.”

“Does it happen often?”

“More often than any of us would like, sir.”

“And, uhm… is he in...”

“Pain? Possibly. His dreams rarely give him rest.” Pulsifer shakes his head. Even Dog looks saddened by the thought. “Warlock has been sleeping better lately, but whatever spell had befallen him… it must have worn off.”

Spell?

Oh, for the love of the Almighty. I see now.

The blessings. The ones I have imparted on the boy. It was thanks to them that Warlock was able to keep his terrors at bay.

Dear God, what have I done? Crowley asked me to keep blessing the boy, and I…

Several candles lit up inside the room at the same time. In the sudden crown of light I see the long black snake enveloping the child and gently rocking from one side to the other. The picture sears into the fabric of my mind, sinking in, taking roots.

Finding, buried in my millenary memory, its perfect twin.

_*_

_  
  
It’s dark, in the belly of the Ark. Half an hour ago the storm pushed us around like a cat with its prey, rocking the ship between tall, claw-like waves; thanks be to God, we’re now travelling on calmer waters. Occasional showers still whip the deck above, but they’re gentler than before. The animals have just settled. Noah’s family gathers in prayer, exhausted and thankful for having overcome yet another tempest. _

_Then the wail of a lamb erupts from downstairs. I promise Shem I would go and check, so he can rest._

_I drag my weary wings below, to the lower deck, wondering how a lamb could have decided to run away from its mother in such a dangerous situation. The lantern projects the tall shadows of woven baskets and wooden crates. This is a place that, were I not made of immortal cloth, I’d be afraid to tread on my own. Why would a small, scared creature decide to…_

_Then I see them. The children._

_They gather together like baby mice in search of maternal warmth. Never in my life would I have thought that kind of warmth could be provided by the creature in front of me._

_His locks of dark, deep auburn run wild on his shoulders. He sports more plaits than I remember, surely a gift of the boys and girls curling up to him, drained by fear and exhaustion. Some sleep, some whisper quietly in the dark. One is weeping softly in Crawley’s arms._

_As I take a step further, my lantern illuminates his golden eyes, feral and ready to attack. His figure changes, moulding into the same huge serpentine body that slithered next to me on the walls of Eden._

_We look at each other, as the child keeps sobbing. I remember what the demon told me when dry land still existed._ “Not the kids. You can’t kill kids.”

_“Oh, bother,” I say, louder and more emphatically then I would have in normal circumstances. “This silly creature, look where it decided to hide.”  
  
As I speak, my eyes never leave Crawley’s. The children grab his black tunic, terrified by my presence. Their faces light up when I conjure the lamb in my arms._

_It took no more than slight displacement miracle, after all._

_Under Crawley’s guarded eyes, I quietly turn my back, and leave the lower deck. The lamb I’m holding bleats. I hold it safely, but not as tight as the serpent below is holding on to the children he’s saved._

_*_

  
“Mr Fell?”

I blink the memory away, coming back to a present when Newton Pulsifer looks at me under the gentle cloak of night, and a single boy sobs from upstairs, huddled in the coils of a giant black snake.

Anathema was right. Being a parent is something Crowley can understand, and the Archangels cannot.

This is why, the following day, I present him with the music box.

It isn’t the finest of my creations. One could deem it too bulky to fit a vanity table and too frilly to pass as a legitimate tobacco box. But it is shaped like a book, which I hope Warlock will like, and once opened it reveals a miniature stage with an Elizabethan silver figure, holding a tiny marble in the shape of a skull.

The sound that comes out of the box is, well… my own voice. Except I couldn’t bring myself to sing Anathema’s lullaby, that one is too personal. It belongs to the two of us.

I hope Warlock can appreciate a tune that surely our friend, Master Shakespeare, had the chance to enjoy in his lifetime.

_  
Alas, my love, you do me wrong,_

_To cast me out discourteously,_

_And I have loved you for so long,_

_Delighting in your company…_

_Greensleeves was all my joy_

_Greensleeves was my delight,_

_Greensleeves was my heart of gold_

_And who, but my lady greensleeves?_

  
The petite silver figure completes a half rotation on the stage, as the box stands open in Crowley’s hand. He looks lost. Caught, perhaps, off guard.

“This is…”

“The most powerful blessing I know.”

We’re alone in the gardens – I found him as he was giving instructions to the gardener on how to tend a late-blooming rose bush. I feel the need to look at the tip of my shoes, which are of course a fine thing to look at, but probably not the peak of fashion these days. It is indeed strange to stand in front of one’s mortal enemy, listening to the sound of one’s own singing. My mouth is strangely dry.

Apparently, though, I have to be the one breaking the silence. 

“The effects are going to last longer than the previous ones, but every time you feel the need for… shall I say, a _boost_ of positive influxes _…_ you can just play the music in the boy’s room. It will work like a charm.”

Crowley’s dark glasses have slipped slightly to the tip of his nose.

“Should I say thank you?” he says, low, cautious.

I shudder. “Better not.”

If the Archangels knew, they’d skin me alive before throwing me into Hell Fire.

“It’s only a small kindness. From parent to parent. If you may, consider it just another way to frustrate your evil ploys by the means of my goodness.”

“Frustration accomplished.”

He smiles, then. It’s a ghost of a thing, but beautiful – like all things sharp and tempting.

Once again, I find it all on the tip of my tongue: for reasons I can’t truly fathom, I harbour the burning desire to tell Crowley everything that Anathema and Pulsifer are scheming, about the Great Plan and their right to free will. In this world where my side betrays me, can I really get closer to the enemy? After all that happened?

I’m about to blurt it all out, when Merryman interrupts us.

“Mr Fell, sir,” he says, face unmoving as always under his oversized white whig. “I shall make it known that against my own will I am forced to bring you this missive.”

Crowley cocks his eyebrow. “Jacob Merryman, in ten years I haven’t met anyone who can force you to do a thing against your own will.”

“I can’t explain it either, Mr Crowley. The letter itself seems to compel me.”

Crowley and I exchange a glance.

The sealing wax on the envelope sports the symbol of the True Cross.

“Holy shit,” someone says. It takes me a handful of seconds before realising that someone is actually me.

This is no message from Gabriel.

The entity summoning me is far more dangerous and unpredictable. This is a call I have to answer, as soon as I can.  
  



End file.
